


Wrong Number, Bruh

by PhoenixDiamond



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, Minor Character Death, Phone Call, Romance, Sex between men, Sharing, Side couples will vary, Violence, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-04-17 11:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14188002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDiamond/pseuds/PhoenixDiamond
Summary: A phone call between strangers leads to romantic possibilities.





	1. Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

> Dunno what possessed me to do this. Just felt like it. It's not my best work by a long shot, so excuse the poor quality and likely errors. Enjoy!

**Wrong Number**

 

T’Challa slinks into a narrow corner beneath the spiraling stairwell for the fourth time this evening.

It goes without saying that the future King of Wakanda is the bravest of the brave, the most courageous hero to walk the globe; a real man among men. But when it comes to attending glamourous galas, mingling with the haughty-tot crowd leaves much to be desired. The only reason he took up Stark’s invitation to attend this obnoxious soiree is because of his connections with China’s liaison, whom hasn’t had much trouble with showing how taken he is by T’Challa’s exotic looks.

How many times has he had to excuse himself whenever Minister Ming Chang sweeps too close to T’Challa’s side or grazed the tips of his fingertips across T’Challa’s wrist when he tells a common joke. Most of which weren’t T'Challa's best and he’s sure Ming Chang laughs to be polite.

Two hours into this charity and he’s never wanted so desperately to go home. He misses the calming golden glow of Wakanda, the spacious, clean air, and most of all, there aren’t so many plastic faces crowding his personal space.

Really, he never knew there were this many pale faces in the world. It just goes to show how sheltered a life he’s lived thus far.

It isn’t long before a partier spots him lurking in the shadows and calls him out to come join the fun. T’Challa kindly takes her offer of white wine but doesn’t drink it. She’s a dazzling, nameless woman; wavering long brown hair, light olive skin and hypnotic green eyes with legs that stretched as far as the African Savannah.  If not for private preferences, he’d find her captivating. But she’s too familiar with many of the men here and T’Challa simply won’t be added to her list of conquests.

Where is Nakia? How dare she offer to be his date just to abandon him as soon as they walk through the door? T’Challa hasn’t seen her once since they arrived.

She left him an old model Nokia flip cell phone—since no one would think to track the frequency on something so small and primitive—to contact her in case of emergency.

As far as he’s concerned, having these people brush their bosoms on his arm qualifies for such an occasion. Someone was even so brazen as to slip their fingers along the seam of his buttocks in passing and that was the last straw.

He’s desperate to be free of this madness and once again, finds a momentary reprieve out on a balcony overlooking the enormous Harlem terrain. A great metallic jungle haloed by the hunble energies of electricity. So grand and so very premature in technology. His sister Shuri was not mistaken when she labeled the outside world a sharp black and white contrast to Wakanda.

T’Challa scours the balcony until his eyes fix on an empty table and chair and goes to sit, whilst fishing through his pocket for the cell and the piece of paper Nakia, oddly wrote instead of programming into the phone. He doesn’t see why they have to keep their most simple communication devices a secret from the public. Most people would assume the products were Stark’s creations anyway.

He inputs the number and listens to it ring two times before a deep, gruff voice answers.

_“Yo’?”_

T’Challa’s taken back by the male voice.

“H _ello? Sammie, if this is you callin’ and hangin’ up again, I’m gonna fuck up your ride. Quit playin' so much!"_

T’Challa eventually answers after finding his voice. “I’m sorry, but I must have the wrong number.”

_“Oh, s’cool.”_

T’Challa hangs up. He could’ve sworn he put the number in correctly.

Easy mistake, perhaps.

He redials the number, being sure to study the scribble digits closely while pressing the buttons in and leans back in his chair, waiting for the ringing to cease.

The receiver clicks on and the same voice floats through.  _“Sorry homie, s’me again.”_

T’Challa snares a sharp, “ _Ukuze ufumane ifom!_ ”

_“Whoa, mah’ instincts are sayin’ there’s a fuck in there.”_

“Please excuse my language,” T’Challa sighs. “A friend of mine gave me this number. I guess she wrote it down wrong.”

_“Doesn’t sound like an accident, bruh. Ya might’ve got jibbed.”_

“Perhaps.”

The pop and hiss of something snaps from the stranger’s end. “ _Where are you at? It sounds like some Beethoven shit back there.”_

“It’s the music and people,” says T’Challa. “I’m at a charity gathering.”

_“Ah, that explains the rancid music choice. Where at?"_

_"_ Stark Enterprises."

_"So that’s what’s got Stark Tower shining so bright?”_

“Yes.”

 _“Ha!”_  A loud, noisy slurp is heard followed by a belch.  _“Ya couldn’t pay me to go to that shit. Been there, done that, and it’s always the same scene. Fancy décor and snobbish white folks flaunting their goods like they want it to get stolen.”_

T’Challa chuckles as he twists to look at the spread of waltzing bodies through the glass windows. “Yes, I agree. I wish someone would have played the good Samaritan and warned me about what I was getting into.”

_“Ya girl did you a great disservice by bringing you here. S’ no way to introduce you to the Harlem life. It’s your first time here, right?”_

“How do you know?”

The stranger’s laugh is a sultry drawl.  _“You don’t strike me as a Harlem native.”_

T’Challa smirks. “You can tell that out over the phone?”

_“Kinda figured it out by your accent. What part of African are you from?”_

T’Challa grips the phone between his shoulder and neck and folds his arms over the table counter. “Southern African; from a very, very, remote country. We aren’t really known in the world.”

_“A’ight I feel ya. Harlem’s well known for all the wrong reasons. Folks don’t understand there’s more to the slums then carjacking, murder and robberies.”_

“You talk so highly of the city,” muses T’Challa. “You should consider being its spokesperson.”

_“Right? Shit, Harlem’s my hometown. It’s the ugliest, most beautiful spot in the whole damn U.S. Only place you can get mobbed and buy a hot dog on the same street corner.”_

The night air cripes at T’Challa’s face like moist rag. The humidity tends to be just as bad back home, but here, having to be zipped in this expensive foreign attire, it’s all he can stand not to strip it in one sweep of his hand. Knowing Nakia, she’ll be sent into a heart attack. He’s tolerated it this long thanks to his long-term friendship and longer still all in thanks to the pleasant distraction over the phone.

 _“Finally, hung up on me?”_ the stranger wonders, or perhaps questions, T’Challa can’t properly gauge the tone.

“No, I was just moving to admire the view from a better angle.” Stark Tower may be a tacky structure, but the view’s breathtaking. Much like how the moon bathes Wakanda in snow silver some nights; radiant gold on others. “It’s the only plus to being here tonight,” he goes on to say.

T’Challa turns away towards the sound of the balcony door chinking open. He softly curses under breath.

“ _What’s up,_ ” asks the stranger.

T’Challa quickly ducks back into the corner cascaded by shadow. “I’m being pursued. Your American women are relentless. I say no, they assume I mean the opposite.”

“ _Welcome to the Land of the Free and overly privileged. Keep talking to me, she’ll get the hint eventually.”_

“I am not sure that’ll be enough to deter her.” T’Challa sighs lowly when the crafty woman spots him in the corner and sashays over, flouncy assets gleaming like polished gelatin. He can’t remember this one’s name. Another incredibly gorgeous magazine clipping he’s referred to her as the Blonde Menace all evening.

“Your Highness,” she purrs, slithering up to his side and grasps his arm. “You naughty thing. Who told you to run off without me?”    

Robust laughter echoes through the receiver.  _“The fuck? Bruh, is that a snow bunny? Abort! Abandon ship right away unless you don’t mind going down for false rape. Does she know you’re black?”_ A stopper comes to the laughter,  _“Yo, are you black?”_

T’Challa scowls at the phone, then graces the woman with a polite smile. “I’m sorry, Miss, um. . . .”

“Roxanne,” she offers and pouts. “T’Challaaaaa, don’t tell me you’ve been around so many women tonight that you forgot about little ole me?” She brushes her amble breasts into his side. “Aren’t I special?”

_“In the head more than likely.”_

T’Challa stamps on the urge to snicker. “Of course you are and staying with would be divine. But I am in the middle of a very important phone call you see—”

“Another woman?” her tone turns sharp.

T’Challa’s smile falters into a cool glare before he remakes his expression. “Not at all, but he tends to get, erm, huffy, if I ignore him for too long.” He thinks a moment, then adds, “Why don’t you get us some drinks? Something light so I’ll keep my head in order properly handle.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can handle all of this, sweetie.” She leans up to lay a moist kiss against his cheek and thumbs the print. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, mmkay?”

“I’ll be right here,” he calls after her. No sooner does she disappear through the double doors, T’Challa hastens towards the double doors adjacent to the other end of the balcony. “I need an escape.”

_“Bathroom.”_

“Huh?”

 _“I said bathroom!”_  the stranger snarks a bit louder.  _“Head in there. No way she can follow you. Take a piss, clear your head.”_

T’Challa does, not really seeing the whole point of using the latrine but indulges him and heads into a stall. The bathroom’s so pristine, the sparkles gloss as bright as the Harlem lights. T’Challa locks himself in and squats on the toilet. “Now what?”

 _“Now we can keep talking. I can hear you better in there_.” A door opens, and slides shut.  _“You ain’t lying. The city’s bangin’ ta’night.”_

“You’re outside,” T’Challa deduces by the cacophony of rushing cars and blaring car horns.

_“Yeah, needed some air. I tend to go stir-crazy if I stay inside too long.”_

“Why?”

_“Comes from my line of work. I’m so used to moving around all the time. I haven’t had a mission in two months. Kinda feel forgotten.”_

“I can relate.” T’Challa listens out for possible eavesdroppers, then lowers his voice in a way that shouldn’t have come off as sultry, but. . . something about this man has him intrigued. “So, what kind of fun keeps your attention?”

_“Hold on, need ta’ light one.”_

The flick and click of a lighter tickles T’Challa’s ear. He’s never been fond seeing people smoke cigarettes. Learning that this person does is kind of disappointing. “Smoking can kill you,” he points out.

 _“Don’t I know it,”_  comes the reply.  _“I ain’t polluting my body with that rat poison. I’m au naturale. If it ain’t come from the earth, I’m not smoking it.”_  He laughs a bit, noisily inhaling and releases the plumes.  _“To answer your question, I’m into all kinds of shit. S’cept clubbing. The scene’s gotten tired over the years. Being smashed between sweaty black folks, the atmosphere smelling of alcohol and sex, nah,”_  T’Challa can swear he hears the man shudder,  _“I lost interest in that shit years back. Life’s too important to waste it on one-night stands and potentially get burned by some bitch or dawg.”_

T’Challa’s blood quickens. Is it possible that. . . “So, you’re—”

_“I ain’t got a label for it, man. I fuck whoever and whatever I want. Life’s too short to base it on what society deems acceptable. If you’re attractive, if I’m feelin’ you, I say we make it happen.”_

T’Challa licks his drying lips. He’s already begun to feel an odd connection with this faceless person and to discover he lives life by similar aspects, well, it’s enough to urge him towards being just as reckless.

 _“What about you, Mr. African Booty Scratcher,”_  the stranger chortles at T’Challa’s growl,  _“what gets your sap risin’?”_

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Dirty American.”

_“I would actually. You into whatever or one of those folks who lives life by the book, pressed beneath a higher-up’s thumb?”_

The prince snorts at that. “I doubt they get much higher then me. I am my own man.” He stands and leaves the stall, having had it with the smell of cleaning fluids and sewer water. “We are alike in the sense of not wanting to abide by the world’s rules in what is considered satisfactory behavior. . .”

_“Hmmm, I like that way of thinking.”_

T’Challa folds his arms, hugging the cell between his shoulder and cheek.

 _“Ya never answered my question,”_  the stranger says breezily.  _“What gets you get goin’?”_

Swallowing reflexively a few times and trying to keep calm, T’Challa moistens his lips again. “I’m open minded to many things. I have no limits to what captures my interest.”

_“Do I qualify?”_

“You do.” T’Challa figures honesty deserves the same courtesy in return. “It’s strange. I do not know your face or name, but I feel a connection.”

 _“Is that right?”_  comes the deep rumble.  _“You kinda making me wish there isn’t just a phone call between us.”_

T’Challa stills as a smile spreads his lips to a bright, daring one. “It doesn’t have to be.”

_“Alright then. I’m about to throw on some clothes and get right. Talk ta’ me till I find a decent outfit.”_

They speak animatedly about politics and food and travel for another half an hour while the noise outside the bathroom becomes louder, more annoying.

_“You still hiding in the bathroom?”_

“Yes.”

_“Come see me.”_

T’Challa’s heart quickens. “Where?”

_“If you’re at Stark Tower, then you’re on Park Avenue. There’s a spot called Sarabeth’s a couple of blocks down the hill. It’s a lil’ fancy for my tastes, but the food’s slammin’. It’s a twenty-minute walk from where you are.”_

“Yes, I will meet you there.” T’Challa’s never felt compelled to abandon his own best friend until this very moment. “By the way, my name’s T’Challa.”

_“Erik Stevens. See ya there, T’Challa.”_

"I look forward to it." T’Challa claps the phone close and makes his way out the door. He doesn’t bother checking around to let Nakia know he’s leaving. He dodges the handsy women and bypasses Ming Chang’s attempt to draw him into another round of flirty conversation.

He’s on a mission and nothing’s keeping him from seeing this Erik. No one’s got his, what’s the phrase Erik said, T’Challa thinks with a chuckle.

Oh yes.

No one’s gotten his sap rising in a long time. He can’t wait to see where this goes.

The taxi cab pulls up to the establishment within five minutes. T’Challa exits the car after dropping the driver a hefty tip for taking the shortest route to get here and there’s a moment of hesitation where he studies over the building, speculating over his brash decision.  He practically rushed from the Stark Tower with mad ambition, as if every passing second will steal away some opportunity of a life time.

But here he stands, loitering outside after going through the trouble to arrive in record time.

T’Challa berates himself for feeling reluctant. He’s come this far. Why not see it through to the end?

When he walks through the door, the quaint restaurant is warm and lightly populated with people. Ceiling fans spiral above to lessen the heat and the décor’s refreshingly simplistic compared to what T’Challa left behind. Red and white check patterned table cloths line squared off booths, the floor’s a soft peach marble, coral colored lighting and the walls are framed with dozens of old fashion autograph photos from various celebrities.

The hostess escorts T’Challa to a table near a window. He orders a mocha latte and slices of strawberry cheesecake and apple pie in the hopes it’ll quell the quivers in his belly. He’s excited and nervous. As to be expected. He’s arranged to meet a stranger and in light of being a person who doesn’t base attraction just on looks, T’Challa secretly hopes the person is as handsome as he sounds.

The anticipation is ridiculously churning. Nerves tightened at his stomach so much, not even the sweet-smelling pies helped tame the anxiety.

He spends some minutes neatly poking his pies with the end of his fork and checks the wall clock. It feels like he’s been here hours, but only ten minutes have passed. He’s so wound up with scenarios, each time the door opens, he wonders if the people coming through are his guy. Each are easily dismissed.

Until the latest customer comes through. . .

Something clicks into place with this character. T’Challa tilts his head to gander the individual more, taking in his tall, impressive sinewy physique beneath a tattered sleeveless red shirt and khaki cargo shorts with a pair of black, red and white Jordan high tops adoring each foot. He has a chestnut complexion, sporting a Van Dyke kind of goatee around a sharp-like smile—the same smile he’s using to charm the hostess. His hair’s cropped around the sides, dreads neatly braided back in three thick plaits.

By the Great Bast, he’s nothing like what T’Challa pictured.

His looks seem sculpted by the cultures of this land, molding him into the divine creature making his way to T’Challa’s table.

“My prayers were answered,” Erik says, presenting an all-white smile. He slides into the opposite side of the booth. “You look as good as you sound.”

T’Challa can’t take his eyes off him. There’s something, mildly familiar and exotic in Erik’s features. Like that sip of a childhood drink long forgotten and brought back into a renewed flavor.  

“You’re. . . different from what I expected,” T’Challa voices aloud.

“What were you expecting?”

“I am not sure. It’s a pleasant surprise,” T’Challa smiles as well, folding his arms over the tabletop. “I like surprises.”

“I bet.”

T’Challa smiles wider. So does Erik. It’s a comfortable, languid stare down, each in turn glancing over the other before him without the slightest regard for whether it comes off inappropriate.

“You were right about the food being good” T’Challa mentions just to fill the air.

Erik lowers his eyes. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

T’Challa holds out his mug. “You should have recommended some items for me to try. I went in blind.” He takes a tentative sample of his purchase, but it’s merely to lick at the sugary froth while his brown eyes intently study Erik’s attention on him. And he feels, as he always does when receiving the full blunt and heat of someone’s intensive gaze, flattered beyond reason.  

Erik’s lips slightly part, tongue slipping free to moisten the bottom half—T’Challa nearly chokes at the lustful rush sparking up his spine, as though it were a just a long flint.

Unexpectedly, Erik reaches out; slow enough to dodge his arm, if T’Challa doesn’t allow it, and he extracts the mug from T’Challa’s grasp, eyes leveled like anvils on the Wakandian Prince the whole while.

“I never tried it,” Erik mumbles. “Can you promise it’ll be good for me?”

T’Challa’s eyes darken significantly at the double meaning. He winks. “You needn’t worry, Erik. I’m a man of my word.”

“Hmm, love the way my name sounds comin’ from you.” A small smirk comes briefly, and it’s covered by the rising of the mug before T’Challa can fully witness it. But he does have the pleasure of seeing the look of surprise cross Erik’s face when he partakes in the beverage at last. His eyes grow comically wide. “Oh shit, that is good.”

“I’ll thank you to remember complimenting my suggestive skills in the future,” teases T’Challa.

Erik lays his lips on the mug again, tilting it back—T’Challa lifts an eyebrow. Erik either hasn’t noticed he was sipping from the same place that T’Challa’s lips have been or doesn’t care.

The rest of the tea is polished off in one noisy gulp and lip smacking. Erik rubs his wrist across his mouth, looking inside the cup. “Tastes good,” he murmurs and swallows before he speaks. “Wonder which is more delicious. . .”

There comes silence then, and the sound of breathing in the small space. Then T’Challa laughs shortly, the tone humored. “You don’t have a problem speaking your mind.”

Then upon Erik noticing the half-eaten pies, his lips press thin. Perhaps a new hunger is making itself known. T’Challa would have offered to order new plates or something else for Erik to eat, but he’s already dragging both pie slices to his end and uses his pair of utensils to take portions of T’Challa’s share and places them on his spare plate. What’s left of T’Challa’s meal is slid back to him, Erik slips a napkin in his shirt and begins to bite into his food.

T’Challa watches him, charmed and delighted. Admittedly, he inwardly yearns for an intimacy this direct but knew something like this would be a distant occurrence depending on how this meeting's outcome. But the fact that here is Erik Stevens, this wondrous stranger from another culture, impudently helping himself to his food, sharing from his plates. It’s startling presumptuous. Attractive. Very intimate. 

T'Challa likes it more than he should.

“What?” Erik asks, taking in his queer expression. “Ya mad I got dibs in?”

“N-no,” T’Challa clears his throat, recovering quickly. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Uh-huh.” Erik finishes the pies in few bites and wipes his mouth with the napkin. “You gonna eat the rest of that?” he directs his fork at the uneaten portions left on T’Challa’s plate.

T’Challa slides the plates towards him. “Help yourself.” He would rather watch the way Erik’s lips wrap around the fork anyway.

“Appreciate it.” Erik does the same to these plates, only when he comes to the final bites, he jams his fork into it and holds it out to T’Challa. “Say ahhhh.”

T’Challa reflexively leans away at first before the situation becomes too laughable to pass up. He holds open his mouth and legs Erik guide the tasty morsel between his lips. T’Challa holds Erik’s gaze the whole while his tongue cleans off the smooth, creamy pie texture.

Erik seizes in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Shit.” His eyes fall to T’Challa’s full lips and that does him in. He surges to his feet, dropping some bills on the table. He jerks his thumb towards the exit. “Let’s ditch this place.”

T’Challa’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Where to?”

“Away from here. My company’s better enjoyed in a secluded setting.”

Trepidation tackles T’Challa’s chest with brute force. He looks at his hands, then looks up to Erik. “What happens next?”

"Who knows." Erik shrugs. “Live in the moment, yeah?” He rubs a hand behind his neck, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m gonna be real with cha’. I haven’t felt this way for anybody in years. S’ different with you and I ain’t tryin’ to let you slip away. So?” he shrugs again.

T’Challa smiles the brightest he has since he arrived in America and slides out of his seat as well. Standing tall, matching Erik’s height and expression, he places his hand to the small of Erik’s back and says, “So let’s go.”

The following morning finds Nakia arriving to an empty hotel room and undisturbed twin bed. She smiles at the implications and goes to fish around her luggage for her Kimoyo beads.

She types in to Shuri.  _‘T’Challa stayed away the whole night. I guess there was some merit to your theory after all.’_

A message visibly erupts into a sparkle of digital lettering.  _‘I knew they would get along. Erik’s always coming to class acting like he can’t be tamed. Figures my brother would be his match.’_

_“Do you think T’Challa will understand when we explain it to him later?”_

_“I think he’ll snap at us, but he will appreciate it."_

_“He’ll thank us for it later.”_

Nakia shuts off the connection and flops back on her bed, exhausted. Having to thwart Stark’s advances the whole night can wear on a woman’s psyche.

But just because she doesn’t feel like dealing with him now, doesn’t mean she won’t later.

Nakia smiles.

She can’t let T’Challa come to this country and have all the fun, now can she?

 

 


	2. Good Signals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it. . . I done gone and let y'all bait my head up into creating a part 2. But yall deserve it. The response has been as gorgeous as every single one of you are. So, without further ado, here's part 2 and it's SEXUALLY EXPLICIT. So if you don't like sex between men, take that quick stage right, homie. Every one else, please enjoy and excuse any mistakes.

**Good Signals**

The walk downtown was brisk and silent. By the time they reached the towering apartment complex, Erik stares at the third floor, where the lights from his living room shone through the balcony glass.

Something visibly occurs to him that has T’Challa wearing a similar expression and experiencing similar thoughts.

And there is this moment of hesitation where they both gaze at one another, speculation in the exchange.

There’s not going to be any kind of chivalry exercised tonight. No. There’s more to this then what a few words can extinguish between them. So, as one, they face the street where the torrid of loud traffic screams and Erik summons a taxi. They get inside and T’Challa gives the driver the name of a hotel.

A very expensive, elaborate hotel, one that’s much better then the one covered by the Stark Enterprises voucher for all guests. Erik wants to say that whatever happens needn’t be done in a place so lavish. But he didn’t know how best to touch on the topic without ruining that brilliant smile. So, he let it be and allows T’Challa to take the lead.

It’s a long, comfortable ride through Manhattan. They sit5 closer than necessary and often, Erik will lean over T’Challa to point out the window at a landmark or recommend a restaurant to consider during his next visit, such as the Charlie Boy Bebop Bar-B-Que or Criss-Cross Rink for its famous loaded French Fries. Truth be told, explaining every local point of interest just gave Erik the excuse to inhale the addictive cologne clinging to T’Challa’s pulse points.

Everywhere that Erik wants to place his lips on.

It’s becoming more obvious the longer they stay huddled in the back seat of the taxi.

It’s incredibly intimate, being so near and the warmth of his body feeding through his clothes like a furnace. Erik wasn’t lying about having not been this turned on in ages. He’s let himself get tangled in a few one-night stands where the nameless individual packs their shit and gets out, which he is completely cool with.

Touching T’Challa seems to remedy those feelings in a sensual, unnerving way. Every so many minutes, Erik presses into T’Challa’s side or offers to show him more of the sights that seem to only be viewable from T’Challa’s side of the car.

So, it becomes a game of sorts that T’Challa recognizes right away and plays along. He’d slap Erik’s knee whenever he makes a joke that’s much funnier than his own, and each time, his thigh moves closer. Erik doesn’t pull away. Neither does T’Challa.

Should he ever decide to come back. . . Well, should he come back. If he ever decides to come again, he would most certainly want to keep Erik around. His company’s impossible to savor in just one sitting.   

When they arrive at the swanky Ritz-Extravaganza, Erik thought they were under the same assumptions that tonight would be a wam-bam-thank-you-ma’am. However, he’s surprised when T’Challa orders a room with two king size beds, one for himself and the other for Erik.

“I don’t want to presume too much,” he says with a wink and leaves the very gentlemen-like tone open for Erik to take hint of. 

Just in case either of them can no longer tolerate the butterflies that have been tap-dancing with a vengeance in both of their stomachs, at least there’s a friendly escape.

“Ain’t no need for that,” Erik says, which is extremely damning for them both. He’s sealing away that escape. “I’m with you.” And they both come to a silent, onceover agreement that there will be no ducking out of this.

T’Challa revises his request and is given the card to the highest suite on the highest floor.

The elevator ride is super charged. T’Challa feels more like the one who’s unbalanced. He side-glances Erik and is envious of his laid-back demeanor. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the evening to come.

Of course, he can’t possibly fathom what’s going through Erik’s mind right now. A world of reluctance and thrill has Erik’s innards tossing like waves in a violent sea storm.

They step onto their floor with a panning hallway donning shimmering gold draperies and silvery gilts caught by the overhead lights just so whoever arrives is glossed by the glitter and sparkles. If T’Challa hadn’t already been certain about this _‘thing’_ happening, seeing how gorgeous the bronze highlights shined off Erik’s skin guarantees it. T’Challa imagines Erik would appear just as glorious in the Wakanda sunshine.

Their room is the last one on the left. T’Challa looks at Erik. “Last chance to change your mind,” he teases.

Erik chuckles. “That’s twice you implied I’m gonna run. What’cha toting in those britches that’s got you worried? An itty-bitty-dickey committee?”

“Once you see it, you’ll run,” T’Challa slides the card in, then adds, “but not in the opposite direction.”

Erik’s eyes stir like aspen leaves in dark autumn. “A’ight, show me.”

“You’ll get your wish soon enough.” T’Challa disappears inside, Erik not far behind.

After crossing the threshold, Erik releases the breath he hadn’t known he was holding and hastily busies himself with sweeping past T’Challa to turn on one wall lamp, the one deepest in the room, the furthest from the lone bed. The room is sparsely lit and takes a moment to adjust seeing, but the décor’s as fancy as Erik pictures a five-star hotel would be.

The cream carpet is so plush, your shoes sink through. The walls are covered in tasteless masterpieces, and the mattress is dressed in an emerald green thousand thread-count comforter set on a bed fit for probably five kings. The furnishing in the adjoining room has matching Victorian furniture and a damn telescope overlooking the city.

“White folks do too damn much,” murmurs Erik, but he goes to look through the device anyway and whistles, impressed. “This ain’t all that bad, T. I’m diggin’ the atmosphere.” He glances around the rest of the room and takes a short tour just to see what the place has to offer. He isn’t surprised to find the bathroom is enormous and made entirely of marble and pearl. The small kitchen is his favorite spot, the one thing he doesn’t mind indulging in someday.

When he returns, he finds T’Challa shedding out of his majestic robe. Erik swallows, shifting his weight to the other foot. “Getting down to business, huh?” And he hates that slight quiver in his voice.

T’Challa finishes shucking his robe and lays it across one of the lounging chairs. “No, merely getting comfortable.”

“Guess I’ll do the same.” Erik turns on the charm a few more degrees and goes to remove his shirt and slings it somewhere in the room.

Unlike T’Challa wearing just his dress slacks and the jet-black undershirt, Erik’s left with only his cargo shorts and socks, shoes having been discarded as soon as they entered the door. It’s all T’Challa can stand to idle by and take in the flawless specimen that is Erik Stevens.

He has the body that many warriors back home would worship; toned and chiseled the way a bronze God should be. He isn’t smooth all over as T’Challa imagined. He sees bulbous risings peppered all over, reaching as far as his wrists—which T’Challa should have noticed if he hadn’t been so bewitched by Erik’s face—and down to his pelvis. Yet, the blemishes don’t steal away his attractiveness. Every part of him is alluring, from his stylish Americanized dreads, the sculpted bulk of his body and the lines adoring and shadowing every nick and cranny begging to be sampled. The sprinkle of fine dark hairs guiding to a place beneath his cargoes leave T’Challa on the verge of unleashing the beast within.

“Ya seen mine,” Erik moistens his bottom lip, lighting urging his companion with a jerk of his chin.

T’Challa suppresses a shudder. This man’s voice would certainly take some getting used to.

He lifts his shirt overhead and slowly stripes it from his torso. T’Challa still has the herb’s effects in his blood from his bout from the last challenger months ago. The effects have only intensified his senses since then and he doesn’t need to look into Erik’s face to smell the arousal that amplifies upon seeing T’Challa bare-chested. He’s glad the effects are mutual.

Just as Erik is muscular, T’Challa’s dark complexion is just as defined and finely hewed; like blackened mahogany lumber, polished and perfect. He’s all long lines and creamy sleek mass. Erik’s sure this man hasn’t known a rough day his whole life. Nothing on him reveals suffering, or a hardship like his background. Or he could be mistaken. Because his body may never have known pain, doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Seeing those bottomless black eyes, Erik recognizes a power well tamed and wrestled into submission.

He wants to see that power tonight. See what this refined man is capable of doing to him.

“I like.”  Erik’s eyes cascade over T’Challa’s form a final, lingering time before he crooks his finger at the older man, wearing a saucy smirk. “But I’ve been fooled by looks before. You sure you ain’t all show?”

“Oh,” T’Challa breathes, head lowering just so his eyes give off an eerie glow in the low-lit room. “I’ve never been good with words,” he whispers, stalking forward, slow and calculative, “I let my actions speak for me.”

Erik doesn’t think a predator could make him catch his breath as fast. T’Challa nears him, leering as a big cat does stalking prey upon a liege.

T’Challa licks his lips.

Erik’s eyes heated and he’s inwardly floundering as the space between them diminishes. Finally, to encounter someone giving off the same foreboding vibes that gets your dick heavy. . .

T’Challa pauses a hair’s length away, eyes half-shut and when he speaks, his lips are a teasing brush against Erik’s. “Now that I have you, Erik Stevens, what shall I ever do with you?”

Erik’s gaze skates over the other’s facial features, lasting longest on his full, tempting lips. “Fuck me,” he breathes a balmy breeze.

“With pleasure.” T’Challa’s lays large hands on Erik’s hips and his face closes the rest of the void between them.

Erik angles his face to the side so T’Challa’s lips land on his jawline. Not that T’Challa doesn’t appreciate the first taste being there, but, “What is it?” he asks.

“I just ain’t into the whole kissin’ thing; ‘specially when we know nothin’ is coming from it.” Erik lifts his hand to scrub the pad of his thumb, callous and brittle from years of trigger-pilling, and rubs it along the soft surface of T’Challa’s bottom lip. “It’s bad enough we both feelin’ ready to fall off a cliff. You really wanna make it mean more than one night?”

T’Challa turns his face into Erik’s palm, so his lips and tip of his tongue can taste the salty tint. “I imagine so,” he whispers, eyes becoming a haunting, predatory glint, “but you should have thought of that before letting me pursue you. . . and now that I have you, I want my prize.” Then he decides he wants his hands on less clothes and more of Erik’s skin and brings them to cradle the back of his head and jaw.

T’Challa moves in.

Erik’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t.”

“Trust me.” Further and further T’Challa bends and breathes in Erik’s scent, the underlying urge to fight, the confusion, the hint of worry. “Trust me,” is the last subtle request to let it happen as T’Challa closes in and tentatively grazes their lips.

Quick as lightning, a strong restraining grip clutches around T’Challa’s biceps, holding him in place. His lips stay planted as they are, neither moving or leaving, just a soft connection. He doesn’t pay any mind to the nails digging into his skin. He doubts this evening will leave either of them feeling unscarred. It’s sure to leave a mark in more ways than one.

T’Challa welcomes it.

He stays still, inhaling so much of Erik and druggily shuddering at the smothering musk and the slight sweetness from the cinnamon and cream cheese residue left clinging to his lips.

The grips around T’Challa’s forearms eventually lessen. The rigidness in Erik’s posture doesn’t. One of T’Challa’s hands shifts down to brace just above the rise of Erik’s buttocks, and the other massages finger tips into the baby hairs along the nape of Erik’s neck.

The touches, light as air, crumbles the blocks of tension in Erik’s body bit by bit. T’Challa doesn’t lose the chance and crushes Erik’s chest to him and the contact pulsates a violent surge of fire. Erik’s hands find a new perch, slowly rising and falling on T’Challa’s hips.

Then he opens his mouth and welcomes in T’Challa’s tongue with feverish vigor and T’Challa’s making soft, relieving pants in his throat because finally, _finally_ he has his mouth full of the taste he’s wondered about since meeting this man.

And like the first initial sight of him, the flavor of Erik isn’t what he’d expected at all.

It’s explosive, daring, bold and domineering. Just like T’Challa. Erik doesn’t relent and simply let T’Challa take the lead. There’s no taking turns. It’s a rapid exchange of messy, sticky tongue sucking and nipping at thick bottom lips.

The kiss suddenly stops when T’Challa pulls away and looks straight into the dark bedroom leading to the door. Erik isn’t sure why. Doesn’t care enough to patronize him for demanding the kiss just to stop and takes the chance to bring his mouth to T’Challa’s pulse point and sucks it between his teeth.

T’Challa shudders hard and clings to him, but his face is still aimed at the door. Then his whole body goes hard as stone. Erik feels the tension practically put a wedge between them and eases back, frowning.

“What’s up?”

T’Challa licks his kiss-swollen lips and sighs. “Someone’s coming.”

“So?” muses Erik. “They probably got a room for the same thing.” He tries to pick up where they left off.

But besides giving him a short, hungry kiss that steals Erik’s ability to breathe, it’s all he gets. T’Challa leaves him to go to the door, grabbing his shirt along the way.

“Fuck,” Erik growls lowly, wanting with all his soul to put a bullet between the eyes of whoever the fuck would be coming around here this goddamn late and for what? He does to see who as well but doesn’t bother putting on a shirt.

Two grown black men in a hotel room in the middle of the night? The shit’s pretty much a given.

The door’s open to a young blonde hair girl in a frilly white and blue maid’s outfit pushing a cart of entrees. There’s giggling and T’Challa’s body posture is too relaxed for Erik. Erik can’t make out much of their conversation until he presses into T’Challa’s back and wraps his arms around his middle, laying his chin on his shoulder.

She starts upon seeing Erik and looks between them. “Um, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized—”

“Yeah, it’s the kind of party you aren’t invited to,” Erik snarks, and proceeds to kiss T’Challa’s neck.

T’Challa grabs the cart’s bar and pulls it inside. “Don’t be rude,” he chuckles and kisses Erik’s mouth on his way back inside. “Tip her and send her on her way.”

“Sure thing.” Erik waits until T’Challa’s disappeared into the parlor room and faces the girl without any of the previous carefree attitude. A nastiness unlike anything the girl has probably witnessed in her life puts a frigid color in her blue eyes and she cautiously takes a step back. “You want a tip, huh? Here’s one. Kick fuckin’ rocks before I drag yo’ ass back to the Play Boy Mansion, bitch.”

The girl huffs, astounded and frightened and hurried scurries to the servant’s elevator that brought her there. Erik watches her up until the double doors close, but by then, within the safety of the elevator, she feels brave enough to flip him off.

Erik smirks. He’ll remember her face.

When he heads back into the parlor space, T’Challa’s fashioned their tea table into a makeshift buffet. It’s a quaint spread of food bits; strawberries, thin slices of cooked steak, a saucer of whip cream and a bucket of ice with refine red wine. Erik doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or glad to see the food.

“What’s all this?”

T’Challa pauses in pouring them both a glass of wine. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yeah, but not for food,” Erik says simply, but he accepts the wine anyway and sniffs it. His nose wrinkles. “The fuck is this?”

“Grenache Red Wine, imported from Rhone, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, France.” T’Challa clicks their glasses together before taking several small sips and goes to sit in the armchair. Or glide into it is more like. No man should have that much grace, but here he does it in such fluency, Erik feels like he’s in the presence of old royalty. “I’ve always preferred the finest quality drinks, food and,” he winks, “my lovers.” And takes a longer sip, whilst studying Erik’s face over the rim of his glass.

Erik lifts his eyebrow, switching his eyes from the drink in his hand, then to the man with a small inkling of something dark brewing in the back of his mind. “I dunno where you get off thinkin’ you can buy me,” he says and tips the wine unto the carpet.

T’Challa doesn’t flinch when the wine stains the pale carpet or when Erik lays the glass on the table with a hard thud.

“That wasn’t what I wanted, though your reaction doesn’t surprise me,” murmurs T’Challa. “Even if you don’t anticipate this evening meaning more than a forgettable fuck, I standby what I told you before. I feel a connection with you, Erik.” He climbs to his feet slowly and removes his shirt with the same agonizing slowness as last time and comes to stand in Erik’s space again. He curls a finger under Erik’s chin and smiles. “I am not afraid to remember what I experience with you tonight and I would rather go the rest of my life cherishing this with you, then treat it like you mean nothing.”

Erik’s mouth thins, then he muses bitterly. “I fuckin’ hate romantics like you. Always tryin’ to see the bright side to shit and make it more than what it really is. . .” He turns his grabs T’Challa’s hand into his own. Breathing a little ragged, he raises it so that the palm faces his face. “This shit’s what’s got me scared,” he softly confesses, “having a hand this gentle and loving take my heart,” then with deliberate slowness, he slides T’Challa’s ring finger deep into his mouth and wraps his tongue around the knuckle and then pulls back. “You can kill me then.”

“By the Divine Ones,” T’Challa rumbles, eyes darkening as hot blood rushes to his nether regions. “Erik—”

“I’m not about to let you have that kinda control over me,” Erik goes on to say.  “It’s not worth the heartache that’s promised to the both of us. I can’t make you happy.”

“I’ll take what I can.” T’Challa intertwines their fingers and lays their joined palms to his lips and keeps them there, voice muffled, “Don’t deny me that, even if you will do it to yourself.”

“I don’t love often.”

“Then don’t. It’s too early to say if I will or not.”

“So, you believe in that _‘love at first sight’_ shit?”

“The last time my mother told me a fairytale I found it difficult to swallow that a prince would be so deeply captivate by a woman he just met and desires to save her from the jaws of a dragon. Being the man I am now, I can understand where that character is coming from.”

Erik wants to counter that, but T’Challa’s already lunging for his mouth and drowning every arguing voice in his mind. Getting what you want and wanting something aren’t the same. The length of time they’ve known each other amounts to the briefest in history, but it’s as if he’s known this man for so much longer.

It’s fucked up in a good way.

Not that Erik isn’t used to it. He’s lived a fucked-up life, done some fucked up shit and fucked up people’s lives without blinking. What’s another add-on to the list?

He makes a muffled sound into the kiss and pulls T’Challa closer by threading his fingers at the back of his neck. T’Challa steers them towards one of the armchairs and Erik grunts when his knees hit it. It is a fluke that he didn’t stumble and make them both crash to the floor. T’Challa hooks his leg around Erik’s waist and roughly sends them both flopping into the chair. He disconnects their mouths briefly to properly straddle Erik’s hips and dives back in as if those lips are his lifeline.

He arches into the hands scratching like claws down his back and when they go to slip beneath his waistband, T’Challa takes Erik’s lower lip into his mouth, sucking hard and then letting it go to figure out how in the Hell he’s supposed to get their pants off like this without having to ruin the closeness.

He momentarily debates on activating the Panther Habit just to shred their clothing when Erik huffs into the kiss. “Hold on, hold on, shit.” Erik grabs T’Challa’s hands when they continue feeling over the swell of his pectorals. “You don’t want the food?”

T’Challa abruptly stops all together, staring at Erik with renewed frustration. “You cannot be serious. I thought you didn’t want it.” There’s tension in his shoulders, in his flexing fingers.

Erik’s body trembles once, overwhelmed by how much T’Challa wants him. “I-It just seems like a waste of money.”

“Fine,” T’Challa hisses and removes himself from Erik’s lap. “But take off your pants. There will not be any more interruptions after this.”

“Yes sir.” He rises to undo the fly on his shorts and procrastinates to shimmy out of them, much to T’Challa’s impatience. Erik’s aware of the older man watching him, barely holding himself back from wanting to pogo-stick the man’s dick. Erik walks around the tea table, letting the motion of his legs shake the shorts free until he’s free of them in clad in a pair of black cotton boxer-briefs.

He was pinching a tent straight enough to guide travelers to the North Star. Then he goes to divest himself of the underwear and hears a sharp intake from behind.

“Oh _Bast_.”

Having provided a good, healthy view of ass, Erik turns to the side to reveal the rest of him and T’Challa’s reaction is everything. He palms his crotch when his eyes fall on the length of flesh curving erect and proud and swollen between Erik’s thighs.

 _“_ _Ndiya kunidla.”_

Erik smirks. _“_ _Emva koko yenza, umntwana umntwana.”_

The look on T’Challa’s face is priceless when hearing his native dialect spoken so fluently. It only serves to make him want the younger man more.

T’Challa grunts as he bends over to yank his pants and boxers off as one and kicks them to the side. Patience worn too thin, Erik doesn’t have the luxury of appreciating T’Challa in all his fine glory before he backtracks into the armchair and drapes one of his legs over the arm.

Erik’s mouth works in silent awe. Lust has taken away his ability to speak and he wants to say a whole lot of things all at once about how delicious T’Challa looks exposing himself like this.

T’Challa rests his cheek on the back of his knuckles, smile growing wide. “Well?”

“Damn.” Erik dick bobs, vigorously swelling, if possible, even further. T’Challa lifts an eyebrow at it.

Still visibly overcome, Erik stalks to T’Challa, eyes magnetically drawn to the lump of flesh pumping with blood and heat.

When Erik reaches him, he kneels, taking T’Challa’s other free leg and supports it on his shoulder. Then he looks up with a devilish grin that has T’Challa sucking in like it’ll be his last breath. Erik scoots him to the edge of the chair so T’Challa’s ass scarcely depends on Erik’s strength.

His breathing’s uneven, anticipating every second, standing like hours when Erik finally traces his tongue down the full length and folds his tongue on either side to cradle it.

T’Challa squirms, mouth opening in a soundless snarl and flails one hand to dig into the armchair. The sensations are like a sudden snap and crackle. He makes a noise like it’s jerked from his throat by a rope when Erik pulls his head back with his tongue clinging to T’Challa’s dick the whole way.

Erik uses the hand not supporting T’Challa’s thigh to fondle his sac, kneading them gently. T’Challa feels flushed and dangerously close to the edge then he feels comfortable with. Each time Erik licks a line up the side of his dick, it throbs and threatens to erupt.

Looking away from the scene of Erik’s head bobbing like a buoy in lazy waves, isn’t an option.

T’Challa’s enraptured by the sensations when Erik’s mouth opens wide and he drops his head to place his mouth where his hand had been; all over his balls to lick and suck and swallow, pulling the loose flesh into his mouth.

Then T’Challa’s eyes roll back into his head and utters a choked warble.

It isn’t gentle by any means and Erik is breathing through flaring nostrils, each exhale tickling the hairs surrounding his dick. 

He sucks T’Challa’s sac into his mouth, kisses them, licks it all over as his forehead bumps T’Challa’s erection. Encouraging, T’Challa runs his hands on the back of Erik’s head, teasing the shaven scalp. It’s an effort to open his eyes again and it’s worth all the treasure in Wakanda to see Erik devouring him like a starved man. The sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life.

It’s the longest anyone’s ever gone down on T’Challa. Moist, dripping wet, with the occasional dangerous scrape of canines. Erik sucks dick like it’s his calling, like he was born into the talent. 

Erik continues surprising him with his hands and mouth, never leaving T’Challa’s dick or nut sac without either for long. The way he touches him and never seems to tire of unhinging his mouth to suck one ball into his, then the other, is demonic. Erik lets the skin slip until just a hint of it is pressed between his lips and sucks on it and draws back just enough for T’Challa to feel the stretch. And that taut bit of skin is teased over and over with harder, longer sucks that are wetter and hotter with swipes of Erik’s tongue. Then the entire sac is attacked again, and Erik buries his mouth and nose against T’Challa’s balls hard to greedily inhale his musk.

T’Challa’s hand tightens behind Erik’s head. He pushes his face into his crotch and ruts into his mouth, so desperate to reach the orgasm teetering just out of reach.

“Damn, damn, just a little—,” T’Challa sneers with sounds like animalistic growls. Erik looks up at him through dark, thick lashes and words like smoldering, fiery and possession course through T’Challa’s mind as sure as lust.

Erik loosens his hold and lets the sac slip from his mouth. T’Challa’s hips rise with the retreating mouth to keep the connection until distant tears them apart. Erik opens his mouth wide to engulf T’Challa’s dick and sucks forever, so long and hard, the noise emitting from it deserves its own soundtrack.

In between riding Erik’s mouth and Erik sloppily licking him, swallowing T’Challa’s dick deeper and deeper until he can’t go much further, T’Challa feels on the verge of reaching the most earthshattering orgasm.

T’Challa feels his mouth filling with saliva. He has to swallow several times around the moans to make sure it doesn’t trickle down his chin in a way that would be very embarrassing. He feels the bones in his neck and shoulders dissolve to ash. Unable to support him through the torture, he slinks into the chair’s cushion and becomes a slave to Erik’s touch. He weaves his fingers into Erik’s dreads, digging until his fingertips reach the scalp and rubs. He wants him to know just how well it feels, how he loves these sensations and will die if Erik ever stops.  

It is so noisy, no other sound in the room, but the sucking and the noises it rips from T’Challa’s lips. Erik drools around the dick in his mouth, running his soaking tongue all over it.

Then T’Challa’s need is coiling at the base of his pelvis, so heated and clutching. Just a little bit more. He holds Erik’s head and hurries it on—eagerness to achieve that feeling burns and comes with an unexpected jolt shooting up and electrifying throughout his body. His stomach clenches, dick spewing steaming splatters of cum into Erik’s awaiting mouth, right down his throat, jerking per spurt. 

And Erik keeps swallowing, gagging once, recovers and swallows some more. He strokes T’Challa's thigh through it as if encouraging him to keep spilling as long as he wants, forever, like he will always be there to milk his dick dry and enjoy it.

Erik keeps on sucking until T’Challa has to yank him from his oversensitive flesh. He hangs onto Erik’s head and pulls him up to devour his mouth, tasting himself and the swirl of Erik meshed in the mix. It’s perfect, the most delightful flavor.

T’Challa is rearing to go for a second round soon with some lightly coaxing from Erik’s hands and kisses over his chest and stomach. But T’Challa won’t waste that moment here. He wants to take Erik where all the younger man is helpless to his control and thoroughly dominated.

Erik pulls away with a filthy smile. “Guess it’s your turn. We can still eat the food too. I keep forgetting you ordered it.”

“Damn the food!” growls T’Challa. “It can wait.” He comes to his feet, snatching Erik’s hand. “This will not.” He tugs him to the bed and shoves him on the mattress.

Erik bounces on the cushiony surface, elated and reclines on his elbows, watching T’Challa moderately stroke his dick to attention. Erik plays with his own nipples, chewing his bottom lip. He thinks of something better and turns on his chest, lifting his ass up high and spreads his legs obscenely wide, fingering himself with wet digits.

“Better wrap that pickle up, homie. Never been fucked raw.”

T’Challa growls like a man possessed. He’s gone and back in the same second, ripping off the foil on a gold Magnum and slips the condom on with trembling hands. He crawls on the bed, coming alongside Erik and gently presses at his shoulder until Erik rolls on his back.

At Erik’s frown, T’Challa elaborates, “I want to see your face when I pleasure you.”

“Fuck,” Erik sharply hisses. “You real deal about this happily ever after shit.”

“Humor me. You’ll never have to see me again after tonight.” T’Challa lowers himself to whisper in Erik’s ear. “I want to take you places you’ll never come back from tonight.” He surges with a quickness, pinning Erik’s wrists above his head, while T’Challa stretches out above him, and watches him from less than an inch away. His eyes are as satisfied as a cat’s. “If you’ll feel better being properly fucked, I can do that, but do not expect me to devalue your worth by bending you like a dog. I cannot bring myself to be so cruel.”

A shine comes through, struggling to push through the doubt and skepticism. His cheeks burn a burgundy hue, so gorgeous and him and all T’Challa’s for tonight. How he longs to say it will be for longer.

It’s Erik who rolls up, slick and agile as a falcon, and brings their mouths together and hooks his leg around T’Challa’s hip so that he can thrust and rut against him. His need leaps up at him from all directions.

“OK,” Erik whispers, semi-coherent to what he’s offering, pupils in his eyes spreading like the petals to a dark flower. “I’m gonna give you me. For tonight. All of tonight.” He says through a tone so raw and choked on traumatizing emotion that T’Challa feels he’s been given the key to this man’s very soul.

T’Challa kisses him long, deep and with as much as Erik is giving. With all of him.

Without breaking contact, T’Challa releases both his wrists and wets his fingers, reaching between them.

Erik’s hand grabs at his wrist.

T’Challa frowns. “Let me—”

“No.” Erik says with final conviction. “Don’t need it.”

“It’ll hurt.”

Erik glares at him. “No shit, Sherlock. This ain’t my first rodeo. I don’t care.”

“I can’t—”

“T’Challa—”

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

Erik lets out a sigh like a punctured balloon, sagging completely flat to the mattress. “Dammit,” he moans, “I swear it ain’t gonna be all that bad. I came out tonight knowin’ I was gonna get a fuck in. Why do you think I took so long to meet you?”

“I . . . oh.”

A laugh burst from Erik against his will. T’Challa’s face. That is the kind of amusement he needed to scare the rest of his fried nerves into submission. Erik leans up to press a kiss to T’Challa’s chin and reaches between them to line his dick with his ass. “So, you gonna fuck me now or what? This chapter’s gone on long enough, yeah?”

T’Challa chuckles. “Yes.” He lays Erik down, wedging his hips between his thick thighs.

Erik kisses him with a hint of teeth and tongue and lips when T’Challa’s easing through the tight resistance. There’s barely moisture there. Just a dry slide and extra tightness. Erik’s mouth fastens against T’Challa’s when he tries to pull away and he digs his heels into T’Challa’s ass to force him deeper inside. The pain’s nothing like anything he’s experienced in life. This is tame. This is T’Challa. He can handle it.

Even if T’Challa’s enraged by learning from the thrust in that Erik lied, he keeps pressing his hips forward until he’s balls deep in. His mouth leaves their kiss to leave a hot, wet trail along Erik’s jaw. Erik bites into T’Challa’s shoulder when he draws back and pushes into him again. Erik’s thighs squeeze around T’Challa’s waist so there’s little for him to do except stay plastered to Erik’s body from chest to hip and only his hips can move in short, paced thrusts. Erik’s whole body moves with those short thrusts, unhurried, hard and as deep as T’Challa tries to do. The pain’s nothing, becoming more a fading thrum in the background of the coming pleasure.

T’Challa reaches that zone Erik hasn’t had touched in months and his mouth gapes in hot and loud breathes in T’Challa’s ear. “You love havin’ me like this, huh?” he whispers. He cups T’Challa’s ass nails, scraping skin, cutting in red lines. “Just like that. _Shitttt._ You fuckin’ me so good. _Damn_.”

T’Challa nips at Erik’s earlobe, quickening his thrusts and angling them so Erik can’t predict where he’ll strike.  His chest heaves with deep, panting breaths. T’Challa’s hips move in ways that tell Erik that he’s gone beyond the boundaries of control. And it makes him howl, and thrash to keep T’Challa lose as he thrusts and becomes overwhelmed with fucking Erik into the bed sheets.

T’Challa pulls away, too far away and pins Erik’s wrists beside his head and lowers himself to stare directly in his eyes. This close, so flushed and delirious, Erik can’t ignore him. Every snap of his hips, he claims a part of Erik he wants hidden.

Erik meets his daring gaze fearlessly. The flinching in his face, and the ripple in his chest coming from every rushing breath, the sweat filming over his heavily branded skin, perfect isn’t the word. No word on the planet can give him justice.

Erik pulls with surprising strength at his wrists until T’Challa’s overpowered and the dominance is flipped. T’Challa finds himself on his back, with his hands clapped to Erik’s ass cheeks and watches through swimming eyes as Erik drives his hips down on him with wild abandonment.

“Ah shit, shit, ah shit, goddamn!” Erik’s whining and humming and his sounds wordless and incoherent too. Precum glistens off his dick as it bounces off his stomach and slaps across T’Challa’s abdomen.

_“Uphelele, uErik. Eyona nto iphelele. Ndifuna ukukugcina rhoqo.”_

T’Challa finds the strength within him to rise and curls his legs under Erik’s romp and crashes their lips together. Erik still rides him, hands like dragging jagged patterns down T’Challa’s back as the rush of his orgasm threatens to rob him of every sense he’s ever had. The sheer warm stabbing into his ass, causes his orgasm to sneak up on him with a weighty slam that has him seizing from dick to the tips of his toes.

“ _Ahhh, Erik_ ,” T’Challa sighs heatedly, watching the spasms take Erik through rounds of bodily shakes. He memorizes every detail, the whole episode until Erik’s limp as paper in his arms and even then, T’Challa lays him backwards and lazily rolls his hips in easy, comforting thrusts. Something to bring a light spark. He comes from it, filling the condom more than it can handle. He stays lodged in Erik, unable to bring his limp dick free because being encased in this warmth is too difficult to resist.

“Whew, hot damn, I ain’t bust a nut like that in so long,” Erik pants. “That’s. . . that’s some good dick.”

T’Challa nuzzles his nose into Erik’s cheek. “You were beautiful, Erik.”

“Oh yeah? You ain’t so bad ya damn self.”

Erik yawns, stretching his arm out and curves it around T’Challa’s neck. “Time for some sleep, baby boy. We can talk in the A.M.”

T’Challa chuckles. “There will be a morning after?”

“We didn’t eat the food and I don’t have the legs to get it. You owe me breakfast.”

T’Challa’s chest warms. “I’ll give you as many mornings as you want.” He hears light snoring. Erik’s already passed out. That’s fine. T’Challa doesn’t feel up to talking anymore and moves to curve his arm around Erik’s waist and pulls him close. He sees the digital clock cruelly reading in brilliant red 3:19 a.m. He isn’t ready for the evening to end and so, embraces Erik closer, so that there is no end or beginning to their bodies and closes his eyes.

Maybe there will be a tomorrow.

It’s an hour before dawn when Erik’s cell phone rings. It’s not his main one.  This one has only one, specific chime and he’s so trained to the noise, his eyes snap open and a low grumble comes from the man jostled at his side. Erik looks down at T’Challa’s head where it lays on his shoulder, seeing his smile radiating contentment and leisure satisfaction. Erik kisses the top of his head before carefully undoing the arms around his waist and limps to answer the phone. His ass feels like it’s been through a compactor.

After ringing five times, the agent assigned to it is assumed either dead or a traitor. He checks the number, severely cursing under his breath and answers it on the fourth ring.

“Talk to me,” is all he says, listening to the accent of one of his partners float through.

_“Where are you?”_

“Mindin’ mine.”

_“Well clear your schedule. We’re needed.”_

“Fuck you, white boy. I want details or I ain’t budging.”

A chuckle rings through. _“Got a sweet deal with a customer in Brazil. Same typical underground dirt. Human trafficking, gambling debts gone sour, the works. Biggest one is they want to do in a dark lord and a slew of his followers for double crossing his inside man_.”

“What’s the green lookin’ like?”

_“Ten dead, each body is worth two mil. If we bring the ring leader in alive, the customer’s willing to shoot the price up a cool fifteen.”_

“Shit.” Erik wipes at his eyes and looks over his shoulder at the slumbering body nestled under the comforter, looking so warm and inviting. “How soon ya need me?” He returns to the bedside, slowly stroking where marks of his teeth clamped into T’Challa’s shoulder and the angry redness showing up on his dark skin. Hickles and scratches are all over his body.

Erik smirks. Good. He feels glad to leave a reminder of himself all over T’Challa’s body. He hadn’t meant for the passion to be that extreme, but. . . something about T’Challa, it really makes Erik consider abandoning this reckless life and getting that American Dream. The white picket fence, PlayStation 4 and kids with the yappy dog.

_“Erik!”_

Erik snaps out of his thoughts. “What?” he says back just as rough.

“ _I said you’re needed in two hours. Sober the fuck up and be ready for pick up.”_

“Kiss my ass, Clint!” Erik closes the phone and sets it to the side.

So, begins reality all over again. And it would happen at the most inconvenient time. Erik looks to T’Challa’s sleeping face and raises his hand to touch his cheek.

A beep comes to his phone, indicating a text.

**_‘Leave without contact. Cover tracks. Very cover sensitive.’_ **

“Fuck.” Erik lightly pounds his fist against his thigh.

How more ruined can this night be? Erik sucks his teeth, soured to the core as he quickly puts on his clothes as quiet as he can, shifting his gaze to catch glimpses of T’Challa’s peaceful face. This is horrible. First time in his life he feels bad for leaving somebody so sweet behind. But the job comes first.

“M’sorry, baby boy. Gotta leave ya hangin’ after all.” Erik comes around the bed to press a lasting, tasting kiss to T’Challa’s lips.

In the glint of the lamp light, he catches sight of dark steel encircling T’Challa’s finger. He hadn’t noticed it once throughout the night, but who can blame him, with such a tempting distraction?

A thought comes to mind and he goes to cradle T’Challa’s hand with delicate care and slips the ring off his finger. Rules be damned. He knows this shit is impossibly foolish, but there’s no way he can end it like this.

Erik goes into the drawer for a hotel’s notepad and pen and scribbles a note. Then he’s gone as fast as his heartbeat, remembering T’Challa’s scent, how he managed to go deep into Erik’s very being and snatched him through those well-built walls without much of an attempt.

**_~Took something of yours. Can’t wait to see you again._ **

**_Erik._ **

 

Nakia snatches up her cell phone when it startles her out a deep sleep. She shifts just to find the weight of someone half on and off her waist. It’s white as the sheets tangled around her waist and by Holy Bast, when in the Hell did Stark find his way into her room?

She ignores it to answer her phone, “Hello?”

_“Nakia.”_

“T’Challa, hi.” Nakia yawns, kicking Stark in his side to scoot him away. She must’ve been more drunk then she thought. “Where are you?”

 _“I . . . I needed to head on home early,”_ comes his soft reply.

Nakia sits up at the tone. It lacks any of the authoritative or carefree man she’s grown up with. “Did something happen.”

A long moment drags before a quiet answer comes. “Yes. And no.” His sigh filters through the receiver. “I’ll fill you in when you come home. Stay safe.” The phone call ends before she can protest on him waiting for her.

Nakia sighs, she hopes her and Shuri’s plan hadn’t backfired. What a mess that’ll be.

She lifts her cell to shoot a text message to Shuri.

_“T’Challa went home early.”_

Shuri’s reply comes back quickly. _“I know. He told me. I had thought they would hit it off. I guess not.”_

 _“Can’t say we didn’t try.”_ Nakia lays her phone on the pillow, rubbing tirelessly at her eyes. Now what does she do? No way she’s sticking around here.

“Hmm, who was that, gorgeous?” comes a gruff, sleep-rough voice.

Nakia’s head lollies to the side, face scrunching. Tony ‘Iron Man’ Stark, white, a billionaire, sexy sure, but that ego is out of this world and he’s not her type. How in the Hell did she end up naked, smelling of sex and alcohol, with the biggest hoe this side of America? T’Challa will love this.

 

 

** Translations:  **

**_Ndiya kunidla =_** I am going to devour you.

 ** _Emva koko yenza, umntwana umntwana =_** Then do it, baby boy or baby baby.

 ** _Uphelele, Erik. Eyona nto iphelele. Ndifuna ukukugcina rhoqo =_** You are perfect, Erik. So damn perfect. I want to keep you always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's a plot in there somewhere. Gonna go pull it out. *Drags feet pitifully into the awaiting abyss of cuddly plot bunnies*


	3. Hung Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's a plot now for all of you beautiful, gorgeous people. I appreciate yall so much, you have no idea! I hope you like the direction I take this story! Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy!.

**Hung Up**

Funny how your memories can suddenly take you back to a certain just because of a familiar sight or smell.

For Erik, riding through the heavy traffic, side-glancing some of the landmarks, has thoughts from three years ago buffering in his head as slow as an old PlayStation game.

He’d thought of answering the calls binging from his civilian phone. Shit, so many times he wanted to run away from his obligations and risk it all just to hear that voice whisper his name.

Just once.

Fuck if he still doesn’t now. How many times has his finger hovered over the answer button, trembling, fucking addicted to wanting to listen to T’Challa demand he return the ring or ask if what they shared meant anything.

That night ruined Erik for the worse. He’s going through withdrawals like a crackhead going cold turkey.

Fantasizing about T’Challa’s touch, savoring those juicy lips, the besetting stare in his eyes—looking at Erik like he is the only thing to matter in his life. Erik can’t recall a single instant in his life when someone’s ever looked at him like that; like—like that polished tiara sitting on display behind a glass window.

This is why he should have refused. These thoughts, the burning yearn to be near T’Challa, this maddening hunger for him, none of it should exist. Erik’s been robbed of the cold exterior he developed against the world all because of a quality fuck that comes once in a blue moon.

Now look at him; eating, sleeping, drinking, smoking, none of that shit can ease the edge off his cravings. The one cure to his plight, he can’t have.

But Erik doubts the feelings are mutual now.

T’Challa stopped calling him one year, nine months, forty-seven days, twelve hours, thirty-one minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago.

And still counting.

When the time arrived where Erik didn’t feel the hum from his cell vibrating in his pocket, that’s when he knew with a sick slump in his gut that T’Challa had given up.

That’d been the last thread keeping them connected. Watching the screen illuminated in the dead of night, every single time at the exact same hour as when he first called Erik by accident that night, became Erik’s passion. He anticipated when it would happen and no matter where he was, what he was doing, he would spare a private moment to sit and watch the phone glow **_T’CHALLA_** until it fades, leaving him in the dark again.

All his days are the same now. Living like a citizen, going to classes, hanging with some associates and doubling as one of the youngest assassin spies for an undercover agency; it’s all run together to where he can barely separate his personas anymore.

By day, he’s N’Jadaka Erik Stevens, M.I.T. MSME graduate pursuing a degree in Ph.D. in Engineering with minor in Physiology. At night, he’s Agent Killmonger, renowned throughout all of SH.I.E.L.D.’s special black-ops corps for his lethality, precision and effectiveness in completing all of his missions. He’s got the third highest success rate third only to Natalia Alianovna Romanova and his assigned partner Clint Barton. And with the latter, Erik swears there’s some fucked-up conspiracy where having a black rookie top their best white boy just doesn’t fit the image they’re after.

Nonetheless, he’s only part of the team for his own ulterior motives. He’s dedicated eight years of his life to this bullshit just to settle a debt and just as soon as he amasses what he needs, he’s dropping the agency and living life the way he wants.

He’s so close to reaching it and damn it if he isn’t close to letting T’Challa ruin that opportunity.

Tear drops in a bucket, fuck it.

No point in reminiscing over a dream. But some part of Erik hopes when he’s done with the agency, he can start anew, maybe hit up T’Challa and they rekindle the flame. Wouldn’t that be the life?

Erik drives his black 2018 Cadillac Escalade through a worn urban neighborhood several miles from Manhattan. He loves coming out during his spare time, being surrounded by the old school atmosphere, the smell of BBQ smoking from their backyards and thrumming beats pulsing from stereo boxes because the old folks refuse to step ahead twenty years and use aux cords and Bluetooth. Same ole Sundays.

Erik shuts the car off and hops out, straightening his red V-neck Henley shirt and smooths the wrinkles from his True Religion ripped jeans. Last time he came for a visit, that’d been, what, four months ago? Erik hopes he isn’t scolded too bad. Goodness knows this man knows how to make you feel smaller then life.

Erik waves to the neighbors hanging in the front yard, declining offers for a burger and hot dogs and climbs the short porch to knock on the door. A minute creeps by before he hears the chain drop off the door and locks click. Erik holds his breath when the door swings open.

N’Jobu regards his only son with soft relief. “N’Jadaka.” Strong arms envelop Erik close. “It is always good to see my son strong and healthy.”

There are some things impossible to grow out of. Hearing his father’s accented voice and receiving his warm hugs always make Erik feel good inside.

“I meant to come back sooner, Daddy. Ya know how the agency gets. Between dealing with their drama and school and other BS., life’s been crazy.”

“Come inside.”

Erik files in after his father to the quaint living room with floral furnishing, the matted carpet that’s been worn to the point of reaching the wood thanks to his childhood antics.     He smirks fondly at the crack in the table lamp left from when he’d been playing basketball in the house against his father’s wishes. Man, he has his ass beaten through for that one. It still has that low hanging lemon Pine Sol scent in the air too.

Erik sinks into the couch, waiting for his father to come back. Pots clank, some glassware clicks and then N’Jobu’s coming back with that slight limp in his stride, passing Erik his cup of dark tea.

Even though he’s closing in on fifty-years-old, nobody would be able to tell with N’Jobu. He wears his age handsomely; skin still that rich and smooth deep bronze. The dress of fine Sunday church white silk robe pops like polished ivory against his flesh. His cheekbones curve high beneath his eyes whenever he smiles, displaying those cherry-deep dimples. He’s retained much of his muscle tone from the prior years of serving as a skilled warrior and other tasks.

N’Jobu takes the armchair next to the couch and sighs heavily from the strain in having to shift his leg just right to avoid bending it too tight.

“Ya leg’s still botherin’ you?” Erik asks.

N’Jobu gives him a dull look. “There isn’t a day when it doesn’t. I suffer, but it does not compare to not knowing whether your child’s dead or alive every day.”

Erik sighs. “Daddy—”

N’Jobu holds up his hand. “I won’t go into the same old argument with you. Not that I stand a chance of winning. You’re as stubborn as your mother.”

Erik chuckles. “She ain’t the only one I get it from.” He takes several sips of tea. “You can say that same dogged nature s’what got me through college. My graduation’s in another month.”

N’Jobu beams. “You will graduate on time?”

“Yep, all A's, 4.0 and in the top five percentile. The only black man to do it in my degree to do it too.”

“Wonderful, my son. You make me so very proud. I always knew you would become great in whatever you career you chose.”

“I got you to thank for that, Daddy. You never stopped believin’ in me.”

“Yes. Now, if only you would chase after _more than_ your education, then I can die in peace.”

Erik sinks so low in the couch his romp hangs off the edge. “See what I’m talkin’ about? Stubborn as Hell.”

N’Jobu has the nerve to look innocent. “How stubborn? I only want my son happy. You had your chance and let it slip away.”

“You know why I can’t go after T’Challa, Daddy. Not until I get my dockets in order.”

N’Jobu stiffly shifts in his seat, expression hardening. “Do you want to end up like me? Having to limp all over the place like an invalid?”

Erik sits up, expression mirroring his father. “I won’t make the same mistakes. I learned from your missions—”

“You don’t have to take up the slack for my shortcomings, boy.”

A visible wince flows through Erik’s body. Another thing he’ll never grow out of; getting unnerved whenever his father refers to him as boy. That usually led to an ass whooping.

Erik clamps his hands together, shaking his head. “Somebody’s gotta do it,” he murmurs. “S’not like S.H.I.E.L.D. is gonna forget your debt.”

“It’s _my_ debt,” N’Jobu softly sneers. “I ache in here,” he lays a hand over his chest, “thinking every night about how my son risks his life for these people just to keep me alive. It is not the child’s job to protect the parent.”

“The Hell you expect me to do about it?” Erik surges to his feet. “You want me to ignore the fact that the minute I stop supplyin’ the manpower they’re gonna come snatch you from me? I’m not about to let that happen to you, Daddy!”

“Better my life then my son’s!”

Erik kneels by his father’s seat, clapping a firm hand over his uninjured leg. “I don’t got anybody else, Daddy. Mama’s gone, none of her folks wanna acknowledge me and I can’t go back to a country you were banished from. . .  You’re all I got.”

N’Jobu leans back hard into his chair, shuddering. He wipes a large hand over his face, eyes glossing an angry red. “I can’t stand this,” he whispers hoarsely. “I-I have damned my own son.”

“Nah, Daddy, never that.”

“If I could return to Wakanda, perhaps beg the chief to at least take _you_ into the tribe—”

“It’ll be a pointless effort. I’m not gonna be around folks I don’t know without you.”

N’Jobu looks at his son over his trembling hand. He squeezes his eyes to no avail as two years fall through. “How much more do you have left to collect?”

Erik smiles wide. “Why do you think I came over today?” He reaches inside his pocket for his cell phone and taps in the password to his bank’s app. He goes through the files until reaching the discreetly coded account stored under **KILLMONGER STEVENS** and turns the screen to his father. “Check it.”

N’Jobu takes the cell in his hand, disbelief washing his face pale. He recognizes the S.H.I.E.L.D. foreign Swiss account and the dozens of safety locks and digital distortion used to hide the actual amount, but he can read through it the same as when he was an agent.

The numbers do not ever lie. A shaking hand cups over his mouth in wordless wonder. He looks at Erik’s crooked, bright smile, in disbelief. “N’Jadaka—”

Erik starts laughing. “After eight years, Daddy. I’m almost there.”

“How. . . what. . .,” N’Jobu’s voice trails off, worried. “What did you have to do to get this bunch?”

Erik’s smile shrinks. “What I had to.” He takes the phone back and stands. “I’m gonna buy us an island to chill on, buy you some servants, the best cooks, the works. Then you can go play golf, fish off a yacht, join the country club, and get a bunch of a hunnies to massage your feet; all that fly white folks shit. Gimme another year; you ain’t gonna have to look over your shoulder ever again." 

“N’Jadaka—”

“Daddy, just one more year. I promise. Then I can live the life you want me to have.” Erik touches the dark metallic band encircling his ring finger. “I’ll even try again, take that leap and see where this goes.”

N’Jobu sighs long and tired. “I cannot stop you. I imagine I will never be able to deter you from your goals.” He smiles a little, gazing up at his child. “Your happiness is all I want for you. I long for the day when you tell me when you are.”

“Same for you, Daddy. After I get my shit together, I’m gonna hook you up with somebody fine. What’cha want? Some pretty young thang with nice titties and a fat booty or . . .wait.” He blinks. “Ah nah, I forgot you like to be manhandled.”

“N’JADAKA!” N’Jobu swats at his son’s hip. “Don’t talk like that in front of your father.” He pokes him in the side and adds. “And I do not have a problem pulling my own lovers, thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah?” Erik gets serious, suspiciously looking around them. “You ain’t got some knucklehead hiding in here, do you? Don’t think I didn’t come here strapped.” To prove his point, he reaches behind himself, coming back with Glock .22, slapping in a loaded magazine. “Yo’ if anybody in here younger then me, you better make peace with your maker, bitch!” He takes off into the bedrooms.

N’Jobu rolls his head back, laughing hysterically, clapping his hands. He looks over his shoulder all laughter and merriment. “Boy, if you break my lamp again—!”

Erik starts laughing as well. Good times. Nice to be able to do that for a change.

Nobody understands T’Challa’s turmoil. How can they relate? He doesn’t want others to know what he’s going through. It’s much safer to wallow in this pit of despair and anger and disappointment on his own.

Since that day three years ago, T’Challa’s indulged himself in better governing Wakanda under his father’s strict and wise advising. The throne isn’t his yet to claim. His father believes there is a heaviness laying down on his shoulders that prevents T’Challa from dedicating all of himself to their people’s needs. Until whatever it is that’s troubling his son, T’Challa will not be able to ascend to the title of king.

He may as well wear a neon sigh above his head when it comes to his father. Nothing, absolutely nothing escapes his wise eyes. It’s both an admiring and annoying trait T’Challa adores about his father. But at times, he wishes he wouldn’t meddle with his business and leave him to tend to his own devices. Goodness knows that T’Challa’s been dealing with enough stress as it is with his own work.

T’Challa spends much of his spare time wandering the palace, finding small chores and duties to busy his hands and mind on; nothing overly strenuous or consuming his thoughts since he doesn’t want to lose too much focus. Although, this routine has pleasantly aided in curing his anxiety, he wishes it could bring back the normalcy of what he’d been used to before the recent changes in his life. He’d give anything for things to return to the way they once were before he. . . before he left his heart back in America.

Yes, he can confess in the deepest parts of his being that he’d given himself over to Erik without realizing it. The man’s stolen his personalized ring and his heart. Simply telling King T’Chaka that he’d lost the ring hadn’t shown T’Challa as being a responsible king, but he’s far from caring. As far as he’s concerned, his ring couldn’t be in better hands.

He keeps the memory of that night, the letter and the hold Nokia phone to him wherever he goes. The day the battery died on his final call to Erik, he’d left it dead. It’d been the toughest decision he’s ever made in his life. He would keep the device charged regularly, following the daily routine of calling Erik’s number at the same exact time he’d did before.

Those days stretched into weeks, paving into every other week. Then the months and every other month patterns followed. But upon the day T’Challa called with the same quiet pleading for an answer, the phone died in his hands. It’d been a sinking, dreadful feeling that evening, staring at the black screen. He’d thought to charge it, but he couldn’t bring himself to continue hurting himself like that any further. Being left to pine after him day in and out, T’Challa furiously became fed up with hanging on that thin string of hope that those last words meant something.

But it’s becoming abundantly clear that it really was a one-sided affair.

Admitting it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. T’Challa wishes it could at least cure the sourness in his mouth every time he remembers the sweetness in Erik’s taste, the feel of his hands stroking over him in the nights he feels the most depraved—damn it, Erik’s become more addicting then a drug. T’Challa sees his face, hears his voice, feels the phantom weight of his body against his—

A knock interrupts his flow of thought. T’Challa leans away from his desk and looks out the window. The sun is hanging just above the tree line. He refuses to give these documents a moment more and stands to stretch ** _._** “Enter!”

The door softly opens to a young chestnut skinned boy with his dreads tied in a messy knot on his head. He shuffles inside, nervously wringing his hands together.

T’Challa beckons the young page over. “You are here for the paperwork?”

The boy nods. 

Relations with the small commonwealth were rocky, but both lands depended on the other for resources. He’ll look them over later. It’s almost time to see his father.  

“Alright,” the prince murmurs, beckoning the Page over and touches the young man’s shoulder. “Tell my counselors to review these again. I find them favorable, but no more than that. We’ll schedule a meeting with the Elders before further considerations are made. Also, deliver these maps to General Okoye and Ayo. I want them to order an investigation for the destructions of the dams in the River Tribe. Do you understand?”

The Page vigorously bobs his head. The documents are collected and neatly stacked in a deliver basket. T’Challa briefly runs his thumb over the Page’s forehead and nods, silently excusing him from the office.

T’Challa stretches once more before leaving his office to head to the east wing where he knows his father’s waiting for him to report all his responsibilities for the day. He reaches the door, pausing to lightly tug at the billowy white sleeves of his gold and emerald tunic and raises his hand to knock.

“Come in, T’Challa,” his voice sounds calm and steady. Just what T’Challa needs.

He steps in, bows, and smiles. “Good evening, my king.”

“ _Unyana wam_.” King T’Chaka circles from behind an enormous oak desk dressed in cream and red garments, no sleeves and a sash of gold to hold them firm to his body.

One would not be able to guess by looking at him that T’Chaka is a man in his mid-fifties. He ages like the finest wine. He looks as regal and handsome as he always has, mirroring a man in his thirties and a body fit to train with the Dora Milaje. T’Challa hopes to resemble his father’s fitness when he reaches this age.

King T’Chaka opens his arms, encircling T’Challa firmly his chest and kisses his temple. “It’s about time you’ve come. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance to spend time with you.”

“You are in a good mood. What ails you, _Baba_?”

“I have to be ill to be in a good mood?”

“For a stoic king like you, yes.” T’Challa makes show of tugging nervously at his collar. “I’m scared for my life anytime I see your smile.”

“Ha!” T’Chaka slaps a hand on his son’s back. “My son, you amuse me. Come, parley with me.” T’Chaka coils an arm around T’Challa’s shoulders, ushering him towards a red velvet cushioned armchair, waving his hand in the same motion for one of the silently waiting servants to bring a stand and pot of steaming green herbal tea. He settles in a chair opposite of him, this one much grander and elaborate of embroidered gold and so thickly stuffed that the king seems to hover above his seat. “Now then, my son, tell me about your day.” The tea set is arranged between them. “Empty your worries on me. I’m here to listen.”

T’Challa nods his thanks to the servant when she finishes pouring his cup and he flicks his wrists towards the Dora Milaje stationed in the parlor room. “You may leave,” he tells them.

Teela and T’Yana cross their arms and leave with the servant. T’Chaka looks oddly at his son over the rim of his cup.  T’Challa takes a sip as well. It warms his belly, settles his mind. He takes in his father’s attire and it’s astounding to see him dressed in common clothes; He’s dressed in a dark bronze jerkins tunic with billowy sleeves and jet-black harem pants.

“I hate feeling as though we can’t communicate the way we used to,” T’Chaka eventually says when the silence goes on long enough. “I know I’m responsible for that.”

“It goes both ways, _Baba_ ,” T’Challa quietly says.

T’Chaka returns his gaze evenly. “I am worried for you, T’Challa. You have not been yourself in . . . a long time.” The king replaces his tea cup on the saucer, leaning in his chair. “I want to know what troubles you. Before I can feel comfortable placing our people’s lives in your hands, I need to know you will be able to put their needs before your own.”

“I am ready.”

“Will you be able to do it if I gave you the throne tomorrow?”

“Without question.”

T’Chaka narrows his eyes. “You are lying.” He holds up his hand to ceases his son’s protests. “Not intentionally. I suspect whatever clouds your thoughts, it must be very important.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows to his knees, braiding his fingers beneath his chin. “I want to know what it is.”

“I . . . I do not think you would understand,” T’Challa murmurs after a beat. “No. I am certain you could never comprehend what I am going through.”

“You may be my king someday, but you will always be my child. I hurt not being able to heal you.”

“ _Baba_.” T’Challa reaches out to take one of his father’s hands and kisses the knuckles. “You do not need to feel like this. I will be fine . . . in time.”

“I am not a good father if you cannot trust me with your problems.”

“You are a wonderful father,” T’Challa fiercely tells him. “I could not ask for a better one.”

T’Chaka smiles a bit, squeezing T’Challa’s hand. “May I take a guess in the dark?”

T’Challa playfully rolls his eyes. “I cannot stop you, your highness.”

“When you came home from America three years ago. . .” T’Challa visibly pales. T’Chaka smirks like the cat who devoured the canary and cream, “. . . you left more than your ring behind, didn’t you?”

T’Challa stiffens all over, eyes betraying every emotion. His father’s expression saddens.

“I thought so. I suspected it for some time that you had fallen in love.” He shakes his head. “I had hopes it would be Nakia, but it isn’t. You were bewitched by an American.”

T’Challa reluctantly moistens his lips and slowly nods. “I am.”

“Am?” his father repeats, stunned. “By Bast, you still are.” He sighs, bending his head back to look at the ceiling. “What am I saying? Of course, you are. You are just like me. You love hard, and strongly. Such is the curse of being a Golden Tribesman.”

T’Challa chuckles. “Yes. I see how much you love Mother.”

“Aye, but. . .” T’Chaka suddenly appears a decade older then his fifty-five years, dragging a hand over his black and silver peppered hair.

T’Challa frowns at this. He’s never, in his entire life, ever seen his father display a habit so uncouth in front of him.  He’s suddenly unnerved. “ _Baba_ , what is wrong?”

A far-off smile pinches one corner of his mouth. “You just remind me of myself in my youth. Before your mother and I married, I pined after someone as well.”

“Really?” T’Challa scoots to the edge of his chair, as eager as he would as a small child ready to hear about the adventures of his favorite hero. “I never knew.”

“Of course not,” snaps T’Chaka. “Why would I ever mention it?” His tone softens. “I still love your mother. That shall never change. I cherish her as she does me. Yet, at times, I have wondered what my life would have been like if I had not let tradition and obligations influence my happiness.”

“Was she American as well?”

T’Chaka bitterly snorts. “No, _he_ is from Wakanda. A very, very distant member of the Golden Tribe.”

“A man? One of us,” whispers T’Challa.

“And if he is a man?”

“N-nothing. I am just surprised. I never would have taken you for the sort.”

“Yes, well, the heart knows what it wants when it wants it.”

“What happened to him?”

T’Chaka lays into his chair, pulling his hand from T’Challa’s grasp. “I do not know. I believe he died. I last saw him thirty years ago in South America.”

T’Challa opens his mouth to speak more.

T’Chaka silent his son again, shaking his head. “My past will not effect the outcome of your future. It is behind me. I’ve accepted it and moved on. You, however,” a grin slowly spreads on his face, “I am intrigued to hear more about the American who managed to change my son’s perspective on learning of the outside world.”

T’Challa wrinkles his son. “I still think Americans are obnoxious bigots with no kind of sense.”

“You didn’t think so badly of this one if you bedded her.”

“Him.”

T’Chaka’s eyes widens threefold. “Well then. I see you are more like me than I assumed.” He chuckles heartily. “An American man. Now I absolutely must meet the man you’ve given your heart to. Did you, um, what is the odd euphemism the young people say these days? Do the bumping of the uglies?”

“ _Baba!_ ” T’Challa’s face warms a brilliant burgundy. “That is not how a king should talk,” he muses.

T’Chaka shrugs a shoulder. “When you are king you can regulate the whole kingdom’s dialect, but until then if I want to describe a good fucking, I shall say it however I wish.”

T’Challa slaps a hand over his face and begins to pray. “ _Owuthandekayo, nceda ndisikelele ingqondo ongayihoyi ukunika ubaba.”_

Another loud laugh booms from the king’s lips. “If you’re lucky enough, perhaps she’ll bless you in other aspects as well.” He winks.

T’Challa peeks deviously through his fingers. “I can safely say that I am. Perhaps more so then you.”

T’Chaka lifts a challenging eyebrow. “Care to prove it?”

T’Challa’s face wans significantly.

His father laughs. The contagious sound brings some from T’Challa as well. It’s the first time in so long he’s been able to have a healthy laugh and have a cleared mind. The first time in forever since Erik’s taken over his thoughts.

It doesn’t feel all that difficult telling his father about how he came to meet Erik Stevens. . .

How they met that evening and how their destiny blended into a well woven tapestry the way their bodies did that night. . .

As the story winds down, T’Chaka’s left perplexedly gazing to the side, tapping his fingertips above his knee. “Where is he now?” he soon questions.

“I do not know. He disappeared by morning. I have not seen nor heard from him since.”

“Are you sure that your feelings aren’t one-sided?”

“I am, _Baba_. What happened cannot be faked. I saw the passion in his eyes.”

T’Chaka hums in thought. “Then you should wait. Bast will not have brought you a bond this intense and leave it be. I get a feeling you will meet this young man again soon.”

T’Challa brightens a little. “I wish I knew how soon.”

“Perhaps very soon.” T’Chaka’s smile stretches even wider if possible and he looks twice as mischievous. “If you do not recall, Shuri is due to graduate in one month. What an interesting coincidence it is that she’s in America, in the same place where you met this young man. . .”

T’Challa’s smile could rival the sun. “It would be a shame not to attend it,” he says, rising, practically trembling with excitement. “I think I shall prepare for an early visit!”

“Actually.” T’Chaka stands as well. “I think it would be good for all of us to go. In case you do stumble upon this Erik Stevens, I would like to set some ground rules for him.”

“ _Baba_ ,” T’Challa chuckles. “Do not threaten him.”

“I won’t scare the boy off too badly.”

T’Challa wraps an arm around his father’s shoulders when he stands to join him. “Please try your hardest.”

“The Black Panther makes no promises, my son.”

The father and son duo share in mutual mirth leaving the parlor room. T’Challa feels a thousand worlds lighter, the set of his shoulders straightened and perk with glee. He had gone back to America numerous times in the off chance he would encounter Erik again, but this time feels different.

Something inside him says this trip will change his life.

 

 

 

** Translation:  **

**Unyana wam =** My son

 **Baba =** Dad, Father

 **Owuthandekayo, nceda ndisikelele ingqondo ongayihoyi ukunika ubaba =** Dear Bast, please bless me with the mind you neglected to grant my father.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more! I really appreciate y'alls feedback too. They fuel my rainy days! You're beautiful!


	4. Connection Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you beautiful, gorgeously fantastic people. Whether you're silently reading, leaving kudos or comments, I don't give a shit, you all make me smile and this story bloom! I adore you all. Here is an early update because you deserve it. Anddddd I think you're really going to like this chapter. Enjoy and please excuse any mistakes.

**Connection Made**

It isn’t often when Erik gets to sleep in. Between dueling his different lives throughout the days, he is rarely afforded the opportunity to rest. The last time he did, it’d only been for four hours—a record for him lately—and that had been during a mission in Russian, acting as a rotating sentry for the Patriarch Kirill of Moscow since rumors of his influence with Vladimir Putin creating allegations of him profiteering a political campaign. And he’s been targeted for supposed controversies with embezzling funds for the importation of tobacco and cigarettes.

That’d been an easy two months. Managing only a week’s worth of sleep collective, it’d been a little draining on his body, but he’s gone through hurdles much worse. The mission was complete, and he’d earned a decent fee for his participation. That’d been grunt work, but he won’t refuse anything that helps him towards his goal.

Erik resides between his quaint apartment and rarely in a single room co-ed dorm on campus directly across from his only close friend; honest to God, one of the few people besides his father that he trusts. It’s why she has a key to both of his homes for the upkeep during the spans of weeks he’s gone. She’s been a godsent since he arrived back home last week.

He’s sleeping in his dorm today, his mattress somehow, for some reason, the fluffiest, most amazing, plush texture he has ever felt. It almost feels like his body’s sinking into marshmallows. As soon as his head dropped on the pillow, he was out.

He’d have gone on sleeping through the rest of the Saturday afternoon until he hears the creak in his door and feels the sudden dip at the end of his bed. Then a warm mass slides against his backside and he smells sweetness coming from behind.

“What’s happenin’, girl?” he mumbles and drowsily peers over his shoulder. “Ya good?”

In the dimly lit bedroom, he can make out Shuri’s figure haloed by the sunlight and she’s smiling just as bright and excited. “Samuel told me the Recreational Building’s done renovating the pool. It’s scheduled to open in an hour,” she explains, barely able to contain herself. “Do you want to go?”

Damn, he has to hand it to her, she knows how to bring out his inner five-year-old. He is instantly wide awake and wiping the dry slob from his mouth. “Yeah. _Hell yeah_. H-Hold on, lemme get my shit on.” He stumbles from under the covers and to the nearest dresser, pulling out a white t-shirt and slips into a pair of yellow swim trunks.

“Eww!” Shuri squeals, laughing.  “I did not want a show!”

“Shut up, like you didn’t wanna watch.” He fastens the ties around his waist and leaves to grab a couple of towels. “Swimming, checking out some eye candy, shit I’m there.”

Shuri bounces off his bed to grab his arm, giggling and tugging him towards the door. “Let’s do this. I wanna hear all about your trip to Moscow and how many men you had to slay in your father’s name!”

“Don’t make the shit sound heroic. It’s anything but a happy ending.”

“I don’t care. The adventure, the objective, the scandal, all of it sounds like the stuff you read from a delightful book or a movie!”

The two exit the dormitory and make a quick run down the sidewalk, barefoot, laughing like a couple of teenagers. And it’s so strange to see Shuri like this. Erik marvels at how this twenty-year-old kid has somehow worked her way into his life and securing a place in his tiny bubble. Since she arrived in America four years ago, she came off fresh as spring green grass and easily impressed by the foreign culture. They met during Fall semester in advance arithmetic and being the only two black folks in there, they gravitated to one another. It’d been invigorating to finally find a like minded person to keep up with him intellectually and not judge him on his outer appearance.

Shuri was intrigued by his rough exterior and use of Ebonics. Erik was amused by how thick her accent would become anytime she became excited and how often she talks about visiting Disneyland. That’s a trip he vows to give her once he’s cut all ties to S.H.I.E.L.D.

They’ve been thick as thieves since the start, going from associates, classmates to study partners, casual buddies and then to being inseparable besties. She feels comfortable around him enough to walk around in the nude and not fear he’ll take advantage of her. He’s done the same, but she’s more modest and avoids staring too long.

They have the same sexual preferences anyway; pretty much girlfriends forever without the whole nail polish and hair braiding bullshit. They gossip their asses off about their classmates and study partners though. That’s always fun. He loves she’s embraced her new life and him with it. It’s almost a quiet gift he appreciates from her. She’s the first in forever to look at him without judgement. The second had been T’Challa. . .

And there the fuck he goes with his brain treading dangerous territories.

Erik gives himself a mental pinch and focuses on Shuri’s dozen-in-a-half rants about how classes have been, what her take on the theory of Darwinism is since evolution is a pack of mediocrely explained bullcrap made by the white man. They follow the trickle of students gathering at the Recreation Building’s Entrance and scan their student IDs on the scanner. The herd flows into a gapping spread of beach chairs, a concession stand built like a Tiki Bar and the giant pool itself stands sparkling a bright shade of shimmering turquoise. The scenery resembles the sandy shores of Cancun, Mexico.

Erik’s beside himself. They took too fucking long to open the pool to the public. He’s about to take advantage of this shit and snatches his shirt off. Shuri’s already discarded her towel, jean shorts and pink tank top to reveal a simple lime green two-piece bikini. They shoot to the edge and cannonball into the deep in. The ice-cold water knocks the air from his lungs, electrifies him to the roots of his dreads and it’s damn sweet.

He shoots up for air the same time Shuri does breaches the surface, laughing hysterically and rubbing up and down her arms. “I think they modified the temperature in this thing.”

Erik snorts. “Chump.” Then he curves his arm against the water and sends a tidal wave at her.

“Oh, it is on!”

They splash and frolic and join in a couple of games of Marco Polo and Chicken with some of the other students. They’re dragged into a volleyball game and a massive water fight that leaves more water out of the pool instead of it. After two hours, they leave to bask in the sunlight, picking two lounge chairs closest to the street to watch traffic zip past.

Shuri sits up, curling her arms around her legs. “Erik.”

“Yeah.”

She looks at him, somewhat solemn. “My family is coming to America for a visit.”

Erik’s eyes slowly open. He angles his head at her, and frowns. “So?”

She shrugs. “I just thought you should know.”

“You need me to go ghost?”

“No, never,” she whispers, voice trailing off as she fidgets with the ends of her damp braids. “I would very much like you to meet them.”

Erik sags flat to the chair. “No.”

“Erik—”

“If I meet your family, then they’re gonna wanna know about my life, ask me questions I don’t feel like lying about and all this other judgmental bullshit.”

“They will not judge you, Erik. You are my friend. My only friend. I never had one until I met you.”

Erik stares at her a beat. He shrugs uncomfortably. He’s fine dealing with her. Attempting to bring more company into his neatly sown stitch is too much like opening himself up. “I ain’t feelin’ that, Shuri.”

“We graduate in a month,” she softly reminds. “I have to go back to Africa then. Will you forget about me?”

Erik sighs, slapping a hand over his eyes. “The fuck I look like pretending you don’t exist? How many folks you’ve seen walk in and out of my life on a regular basis. Go on, I’ll wait.”

Shuri smiles a bit. “None.”

“Exactly. I’ll still call you, probably sneak over into your country and we’ll watch a few movies. We gotta watch Bridesmaids tonight anyway. Since it’s your turn to pick the damn movie and you would pick some chick-flick shit like that.”

Shuri giggles, straightening out her legs and wiggles her toes. “It is amusing. I like romantic comedies”

“You know what I like?”

“Drama?”

“No, pizza.”

“Oh! I do too. You should go get us some.”

Erik looks at her like she lost her mind. “I suggested it though.”

“I’m a girl.”

“So? Women fought for equal rights. Don’t let their sacrifice go to waste.”

“You impossible pig!” She reaches over and pinches his arm, hard, ignoring his grunt of pain. “If you cherish our friendship even a little bit, you will feed me!”

“Consider us divorced then.”

“Erik!”

Erik throws up his arms. “Fuckin’ fine!” He flops over and climbs to his feet. “What do you want on it?”

Shuri sweetly beams. “Pepperoni, cheese, bacon, peppers, and I would like a Sprite please.”

“Fat ass. That’s why I thought you were pregnant the other day; thighs spreading like rumors, baby.”

“Go to Hell!” Shuri hugs her legs to her chest again. “You never discuss a woman’s weight so cruelly. Bad form, Erik!”

“Practice some push-aways then.” Only reason he’s bothering is because his stomach’s growling something fierce. He just didn’t feel like being the retriever.

He slips on his shirt and grabs his cell and wallet.

The line’s long as Hell, weaving like a snake between the tables. Erik files in at the end and patiently waits for his turn.

Throughout all his years training under S.H.I.E.L.D. he’s learned to hone his body and psyche towards the slightest threat. The hackles on the back of his neck rose like an electric charge when he feels a presence slither up behind him, the warm of a solid body similar to his build and height. He controls his reaction, concentrating on his breathing and faces forward. Another body barricades his right flank—his dominant flank.

It’s only then that he relaxes a little because how often does one’s enemy know to wear the kind of presume meant to alert your coworkers you’re nearby. “Colton says I’m off until after my graduation,” Erik sneers through tight teeth. “So whatever you’re tryin’ to sell, I ain’t buying.”

“We know that,” Natalie murmurs from his right.

“But wasn’t it you who said to let you know whenever the bigger fish sail into town?” Clint Barton finishes.

Erik keeps his eyes forward. “Like who?”

“Ulysses Klaue, current Ace of Hearts in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Stack of Most Wanted.”

Erik’s tempted to whip around and call Clint on this bluff. They’ve been trailing this one man for months and not even their technological advances in surveillance has been able to keep consistent track of him. Now they suddenly have him on radar? The shit’s too good to be true.

And his silence is adequate enough to relay his disbelief on the matter. “We have word from a very, very reliable source that he’s scheduling a hit right here in the country. This state. . .   _this town.”_

When Erik does turn around his eyes are murderous. “Who’s he goin’ after?”

Clint regards him from behind his sunglasses, then sniffs. “Supposedly there’s gonna be some big shots from Wakanda touching base here innnnn,” he checks his clock, “ about twenty-nine hours. They’ll be staying in town to see their dear daughter graduate as your class’s Valedictorian.”

Erik feels the precise moment his chest warms and chills and tightens and he’s reminded all over again why it’s a bad idea to get close to people. “Shit,” he sharply curses. “Shuri?”

Clint shakes his head. “We aren’t sure who the exact target it is, but it’s a safe bet the royal family. Probably the king.”

“Who’s all coming?”

“The king, queen, and a handful of their body guards.” Natalie shifts closer to Erik’s side and leans in to whisper in his ear, “Their son Prince T’Challa will be in attendance as well.”

If he hadn’t already been prepared to join the team, hearing that name sealed the deal. “What’s my part?”

“Ah, so you’ll be joining after all?”

Erik shoots her a lethal look.

She chuckles. “Just need the confirmation. Of course, this means that you may not be able to walk with the rest of your classmates. You’re sure you want to make that kind of sacrifice?” 

“This bitch takes priority over everything,” Erik darkly says. “I owe his ass for old and new.”

“Colton figured that’d be why you’d want to participate. But we’re here to tell you otherwise.”

Erik spares a barely noticeable glance between the two. Natalie disappears from view, leaving Clint to relay the rest of the message, “Colton’s not on this assignment. He’s been reassigned. Something about playing favorites or some shit. Some new guy name Everette’s in charge of us now and he knows about you and N’Jobu’s involvement with Klaue. . . S’ why you can’t be here when he does touch down.”

“Fuck you, I’m stayin’,” Erik sneers under his breath. “Y’all gonna carry my dead ass outta town before I let this chance get away from me.”

Clint smirks. “We already know you won’t leave without a fight. Colton may be stripped from the department, but that doesn’t mean he is going to let this opportunity slip by either.” Erik tenses when Clint reaches inside his jean pockets and comes back with a thin black device fitted to the dent of his palm. “One of our men is acting as your decoy. This device is what they would have used on you to track your whereabouts. As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. is concerned you’re already on your way to Alabama.”

Erik feels it pressed into his hand and he slides it in his pocket.

“Nobody will be the wiser,” says Clint, then he adds, “but do us all a solid and avoid splattering the man’s blood like graffiti, huh?”

“No promises.”

“Didn’t think so.”

The warm presence behind Erik shifts to leave. He tilts his head to the side and softly asks, “What do you have to gain from helping me get revenge? Y’all willbe in some deep shit if the Big Dogs find out.”

Clint stalls by a table. He rubs a hand over his closely chopped blonde hair, shaking his head. “You remember Scott Summers?”

Erik scans his brain over the name until matching the face to a red-haired elementary school teacher out in Kansas with a fondness for children and sunshine. “The dude you kept hooking up with from time to time?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

“. . . We buried him last week. Klaue put a bullet in his head before I had the chance to say who did it and what for.”

“Shit” The details on that were fuzzy. Erik knew vaguely about anything going on in Clint’s life. Between the two of them, Clint’s had way more reason to distrust others. He doesn’t allow anyone close. Absolutely no one. So . . . Erik can’t even imagine going through the shock of finding the one person you let in, dead.

Erik turns around. “Clint—”

The older agent’s already blended in with the rest of the crowd. Erik’s moistens his bottom lip and shakes his head. Klaue’s got way too much blood on his hands and plenty of hounds wanting to tear into his ass. At this rate, he’s just a strip of meat ready to be devoured by a bunch of hungry piranhas. 

The information processes in his mind with the rapidity of a super computer. Things have gotten severely complicated now. Klaue, Shuri, her family and damn it. . . T’Challa is coming. So much to think about and the dangers implied. Looks like he has some arrangements to make.

Erik eventually reaches the stand and orders their food and takes it back to his spot with Shuri. When he returns he finds she’s already happily chewing on one of two slices of pizza with a large cup of Sprite nestled between her thighs.

“Thank you,” she says with fat cheeks.

Erik glares. “Who’d you flirt with to get your food?”

Shuri swallows. “No one,” she bites into her pizza, chews and swallows. “A very pretty woman gave it to me. Says it’s courtesy of you.”

 _‘This bitch.’_ Erik sighs, shaking his head and doesn’t think much of it. Natalie’s not a threat to civilians, but he’s a notorious hoe. He’s going to have to lay some ground rules with her about keeping her hands off the young and innocent.

They retire in Shuri’s dorm room for the day after having showers. They’re quiet for most of the late afternoon, Erik staring off into space, enjoying a freshly rolled purp whilst pondering the mysteries of the universe. Namely, what he has done to land himself in this big ole heaping pile of _‘What the fuck is really going on?’_

There’s so much to take in and very little time to handle it. That piece of shit Klaue is supposed to be making an appearance here in his home town of all places and then there’s the fact that T’Challa, the fucking brother of her best friend is returning around the same time, which means that Klaue may have his sights on either one of the royals or all of them.

Erik wouldn’t half have as much as he is now, but he unfortunately has a vested interest in Shuri’s wellbeing and like it or not, those three lonely years haven’t done shit to cure how his heart gallops at the thought of T’Challa. The phrase about how absence makes the heart grow fonder needs a year supply of the best beer money can buy. They seriously weren’t kidding.

It’d be so damn easy to skip town for a couple of months to avoid running into the prince, but there’s no way to prevent it from happening. Erik can dip and dodge T’Challa all he wants, but deep down, he knows they’re bound to encounter each other.

He sucks in a long drag from his blunt, rolling the essence on his tongue before emptying it from his nostrils.

Shit’s gone from crazy to insane in a nanosecond. What the fuck is he supposed with all of this?

“I don’t think I want to watch Bridesmaids anymore,” Shuri murmurs from the balcony door. She’s dressed in a long, floral cotton nightgown with a neon pink and green stripped bonnet on her head, holding two DVDs in her hands. “I think a comedy night is in order. What do you think?”

Erik finishes the rest of his smoke and flicks it over the edge. “I’m down for whatever, baby girl.”

Shuri lowers the DVDs to her sides. She slowly walks onto the balcony with him, studying his face. “I wish I knew what has you so gloomy. I am not used to seeing you rain on my parade.”

Erik has to laugh at that. “I think you mean buzzkill, but I’ll give you a C for trying.” He holds out his hand until she grasps it and he pulls her up to his side, coiling an arm tight around her shoulders. Since when did this little girl begin to mean more to him then he wants to admit? “I’ll try to smile a lil’ more. I just have a bunch a’ shit on my mind. Too much to process all at once, ya know?”

“I guess so.” Shuri quiets, then softly says, “You carry a lot of burdens on your shoulders. You do not have to do it alone. . . I think you should consider talking to my brother.”

Erik’s expression hardens fast. “I still oughta knock you out for setting us up like that. Who told you to hook us up?”

Shuri pouts. “You told me you had a good time with him.”

“That was before I realized I fucked my best friend’s older brother.” He pauses, thinks it over, then swiftly brings his hand down on her behind, ignoring her sharp cry. “Next time stay out of grown folk’s business.” He leaves her on the balcony to order Chinese takeout.

Shuri comes in tenderly rubbing her bottom, shooting deadly eyes at him where he sits on the floor in front of the couch. “Just for that, we are watching Wedding Planner.”

“Girl, stop it,” whines Erik. “Whatever, maybe if I watch somebody else’s fucked up life, it’ll make me feel better.”

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Shuri snickers. “This will be fun. I like when you make fun of the movies.”

Erik shrugs, saying nothing more when she slides the disc into the player and walk back to sit on the couch. Before the movie begins, Shuri maneuvers around so her legs drape either side of Erik’s shoulders and she pulls him close. He smirks and automatically lays his head back into her crotch and pleasantly hums when the tips of her fingers massage his scalp. The movie started play and ten minutes in, he’s in a trance and all his worries are gone, the Wedding Planner’s issues miles away from his thoughts as he drifts to sleep.

 The school is more impressive then T’Challa imagined it’d be. It’s deserving of his sister. The neatly trimmed lawns, manicured shrubbery, and sprinkles of casually dressed students still sauntering around this evening all fit the bill of what Shuri was looking for. It’s no wonder her enthusiasm was so flamboyant every time they spoke through the Kimoyo Beads.

“Shuri’s smarter then the entire student body,” T’Chaka proudly boasts, nose turned up. “What she finds so satisfying about this country’s education system is beyond me.”

Ramonda lays a hand on her husband’s arm. “You are sure school is the reason why she left Wakanda?” she teases.

T’Chaka looks at her, confused. “What other reason is there other then to prove that Wakanda is superior in every way?”

“Leave it be, Mother,” chuckles T’Challa.

T’Chaka looks from his wife to his son, glaring. “I don’t appreciate the inside joking.”

“Shouldn’t we focus on finding out which building Shuri lives in?” says Ramonda.

T’Challa discreetly summons the directions off his Kimoyo Beads after a gaggle of students walk by and reads through the instructions and labels of the buildings. He gazes around where they stand in the center of the courtyard, mumbling off the names of the buildings until finding the one designated as Shuri’s dorm.

He smiles. “It’s that one. Fifth floor, room three-three-eight.”

“Finally, let us leave these common sea of pale faces,” T’Chaka huffs, picking distastefully at his new attire; an emerald green collar polo shirt with khaki slacks and brown penny loafers. “I don’t see why I had to change. I was comfortable in my robes.”

“We needn’t stand out so much, dear.” Ramonda can’t complain as much, looking radiant in a soft cream and sunflower printed sundress with golden accessories to add a splash of shine with black baby doll slippers.

T’Challa chose a simple V-Neck black t-shirt and fitted red slacks with Reebok shoes. He checks the map again to be sure he’s chose the right building and follows the path leading up to it. He doesn’t think Shuri will mind that they’ve arrived earlier then scheduled. The plan had been to arrive this evening and wait until tomorrow to visit.

But T’Challa can’t resist wanting to surprise her. It’s been so long since he’s seen her face to face. T’Challa beckons his parents to follow him as they’re lead up the door and enter. It’s well structured, clean and there’s a receptionist at the front desk. T’Challa is surprised how easily they were able to be allowed entrance. He’d though such a prestigious school would have better security.

T’Chaka’s already warning to have a serious talk with the school president about their lackluster security measures and what ways they can go about improving them. T’Challa offers his opinions here and there, but he feels compelled to hurry for some reason. He can’t explain the abrupt urgency, instincts violently flaring.

It’s as if he senses a magnetic pull in this direction and he follows it without checking the numbers or arrows directing him along the way. His feet trudge onward, stride widening and his senses blooming with the fresh scent of someone. . . someone he thought would be gone from his life forever.

T’Challa picks up the pace, leaving his parents to scarcely keep up with him. He ignores them calling his name. If he dares to dream, by Bast, please tell him he isn’t because it’s impossible to hope that he is right. Could Bast be so blessed this fast? His heart’s overwhelmed with radical throbs to believe it.

T’Challa finds Shuri’s door. His heart’s thundering, palms moist and trembling. This is Erik’s scent permeating from inside her dorm; hot, stormy, familiar. . .

T’Challa grasps the doorknob. He’ll rip it off the hinges of need be. There is no escaping him this time. Erik Stevens is behind here, T’Challa beats his soul on it.

Erik is behind this door.

Erik is here. . . inside Shuri’s dorm room.

T’Challa swallows back the thickness souring the back of his throat.  The implications slowly melt into his thoughts like candle wax.

Why is . . . why is Erik inside Shuri’s dorm?

T’Challa’s lips part in mild shock. Shuri and Erik. They are. . .

T’Challa’s entire demeanor morphs in that eternal second. Like watching the parts of a distorted show create images in his head, they swim through by the slowest motion.

He could be wrong. He wants to be. But T’Challa’s instincts have never lead him astray. They’re clawing and kicking and scratching at the back of his mind that Erik Stevens has moved on. And as fate would have it, with T’Challa’s younger sister.

He smiles bitterly. “It would seem you are destined to be a part of my family no matter what, Erik Stevens,” he whispers, and steps back. “I guess I will not be the one to make it happen.

T’Challa’s hand drops to his side. Why on earth did he think Erik would wait? He doesn’t owe T’Challa anything. What had he been thinking? Entertaining such a fantasy like some lovesick child.

He stares at the door for the longest, dreading seconds of his entire life. . . and doesn’t know when he began walking away. He just feels his body moving in no direction. By his confused parents, through the quiet halls and out the door.

Still walking, no idea where.

He just needs to get away.

Sometime late in the night, Erik sleepily opens his eyes to a dark room illuminated by flickering lighting and the sound of a repetitive introduction. He straightens his neck, feeling the crack and snap of his bones protesting to having slept in such an awkward position. He rubs the aching at his aching muscles before turning his head to find Shuri stretched on her stomach across her couch, sound asleep.

Erik yawns loud and climbs to his feet to stretch his arms and legs. He doesn’t think twice about going to her closet to find a blanket and lazily tosses it over her head, leaving the rest of her body to freeze. She can do the rest of it herself. He checks his watch to read the time.

It’s after one o’clock. It’s times like this he’s glad he lives across the hall. Otherwise they’ll more have slumber parties and shit then he can stomach. But he’s wide awake now and needs an outlet. A walk’s in order.

Erik’s mind is a whirlpool of disconcertion. Until he clears it, he won’t be able to sleep. So, he leaves Shuri’s place, locking up behind himself and goes to his own room to change into a sleeveless grey pullover, some black and white jersey shorts and a pair of low top Air Forces.

The campus has multiple sidewalks and paths to navigate. He doesn’t feel like dealing with the front desk security tonight either and leaves via his balcony, jumping from his fifth-floor room, tagging the third-floor rail on the way down and landing airlessly at the bottom.

Erik starts strolling down the sidewalk with no real direction in mind. He needs the crisp air, low humming traffic and cricket chirps to ground him. His mind does encourage him to take a stroll to the local playground. The school’s good for accommodating families, so they equip a decent playground on several portions of the property. The closest one is just a five-minute walk from here.

Low music thrums from a rapper’s voice, some crooning bars too muffled by the distance to really make it out.  The melody’s easy to identify, Drake’s Fine Your Love. Kinda a good pick for the evening.

This late at night, it comes as no surprise that most of the student body is still partaking in the festivities, frat parties booming with folks his age getting lost in between somebody’s legs and disoriented dreams. Erik should be apart of the crowd, perhaps a night deep dicking some random bitch or dude might cure his mind of the infestation that is T’Challa.

Damn if that man doesn’t have a twisted habit of infiltrating one’s mind at a moment’s notice. With no rhyme or reason, he’s suddenly filling Erik’s thoughts. He’ll be in the states soon. If he hasn’t already touched down. One can never trust Clint’s resources since he tends to change the facts just to keep folks off the trail. T’Challa and his family may arrive earlier or later then what was said.

When he arrives, what then? Erik can’t see him now. He needs to keep his head in the game. T’Challa’s nothing but a fine ass distraction; a possible targeted distraction at that. What of all folks does Klaue have it out for the royal family. Of all the fucking rich families, he has to go after the one who has his best friend as a daughter and his. . . and T’Challa as the son. Erik rubs a thumb over the ring’s smooth surface, inwardly seething. It’s like fate’s taking pleasure in fucking with his life. No kind of mercy to be had.

The East Field Park is one littered with plenty of swing sets for all ages, long slides, a softball field and a set of bleachers haloing a small football field. Erik meanders over to the swings ready to light up and chill the few hours left between here and dawn.

It’s what he always does; a familiar routine. No one’s ever out here.

Someone is this time.

Staring across the darkened grounds, Erik makes out the outline of sinewy man settled on a swing, head bowed, and hands clasped between his legs. He looks like the weight of the world has reached its limits and he’s too tired to fight it. Erik can relate. But he came here for the solitude. The fastest way to the West Field Park is walking straight through this one.

Erik does with leisure, oddly feeling himself unable to take his eyes away from the figure shrouded in shadow and as he nears, his perspective changes more and more.

The light from the streetlights shine over the stranger’s face as it lifts, eyes like mocha and just as warm and sweet looking into his soul. Face intense as a flame, those eyes widen in recognition and Erik’s sure his center of gravity is shifting from beneath his feet.

And Erik can only stare, unable to move, locked in a trance of epic hypnotic effects.

Erik’s chest expands, his nostrils flare and despite all their surroundings, T’Challa’s smell is unmistakable. He can feel his face flushing from that night, tangled in the hot flesh and strength of this man, feel his lips pressing hungrily unto his, the way his touches drove him through dimensions of passion.

That sexy son of a bitch sitting there is unmistakably Erik’s worse, best nightmare come true.

Erik’s heartbeat makes his cheeks tingle and he grimaces when T’Challa stands up in an equally bewildered daze.

“Erik,” the prince breathes, voice saturated in warmth and sickeningly sweet.  His long legs eat up the space between them before Erik has the mindset to realize what’s happening.

T’Challa closes in and stops short of invading Erik’s personal space. “I . . .” he quietens, looking to the ground, smiling dampening, then gazes up as if uncertain. “Hi.”

Erik still hasn’t figure out how the fuck to get his voice box to fucking work. Words fail him. He raises a sweaty palm from inside his front pocket and flicks it once.

It’s the straw to break the camels back. T’Challa sighs a sharp exhale and comes forward, takes Erik’s chin and draws him into a savage kiss.

Erik swallows the saliva threatening to choke him and moves a step back. T’Challa’s sweeps to the small of his back and steers him back in. Like bringing a parched man to the clearest water, Erik’s sent through a tsunami of sensations, sparks exploding, and shuddering from the taste. So wet, hot and tasting like the best kind of drug. He aches into T’Challa’s body, hands finally coming to life and going to wrap like tentacles around his waist and squeezes.

Whatever hesitation Erik might have been feeling before, the reluctance to see T’Challa, it all vanishes as their lips reacquaint. He twists his pelvis to align the erection pinching in his crotch and three years hasn’t done shit to change the way this man affects him.

Erik pulls back, nipping at T’Challa’s bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth before letting it retract like rubber.

Feeling him so close after what feels like eons, it’s more than enough to make Erik lose himself.

All thoughts of the world around them, his responsibilities, the wrongness of this, the horrible complications sure to come, it is all completely forgotten.

He smirks against T’Challa’s mouth, breathing in his air, absorbing his body heat and adoring that gorgeous-as-fuck smile.

Erik nuzzles their noses and whispers “Hey T,” just because he knows he has the power to see that pretty smile brighten his world all over again.  


	5. Bad Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Lemon dead ahead! 
> 
> Thanks once again to every single one of you gorgeous folks for reading this story. Please enjoy and excuse any mistakes.

**Bad Connection**

Their reunion should be going differently than this.

Erik’s been trained to detach himself emotionally and psychologically from his assignments. It leaves him morally void of feeling sympathy or regret for whatever he’s tasked to do and by what means he utilizes to finish it. This behavior has become so second nature, he’s applies the same practice to his daily routines. It’s always made one-night stands and assassinations less of a bother to ponder off later.

It’s for the second time in his life, he decides to partake in something he knows he’s going to regret.

If T’Challa’s lips weren’t so goddamn delicious, Erik would be half-way across the country, preventing this—this frivolous flutter in his chest from crackling like a bag of rock candy. Klaue had been reason enough to miss out on taking S.H.I.E.L.D’s orders to leave the state. T’Challa, well, he just so happens to be apart of the ordeal now. And who is Erik to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Besides, he’s always been brazen for reckless ventures. . . and he’ll be lying his ass off if he ever said he didn’t miss T’Challa.

“You’re sure no one will come?” T’Challa whispers, while Erik’s already tugging on the buckle of his studded belt. “ _It is_ a weekend night. Americans tend to be extra frisky around this time.”

“I never said we wouldn’t.”

“That is the problem.”

T’Challa tries to push him back, hands fitted the bulge of Erik’s pectorals as he glances around them for the tenth time, view slightly obscured by the seesaws and large jungle gym. Bast knows how he allowed himself to be lured into doing this act of sin in the middle of the night, in a public area, with so many people still roaming the streets. Even if the chances are slim with them being caught, it doesn’t calm the butterflies roaring in his belly.

“Nobody ever comes out here for real,” Erik murmurs. The belt slips through the loops of T’Challa’s waist and lowers noisily into the sand. “’Sides, if you’re so worried about getting caught, ya better keep your mouth shut.”

“No promises.”

“I’m kinda hopin’ you don’t. I wanna hear ya scream.”

No way he’s serious. T’Challa sincerely hopes not. His family’s managed to enter the country undetected but come morning the whole country will know of their arrival and the camera people will swarm them from all sides and angles. Their every gesture, words, sounds, actions, all of it will be on national display every single second of the day. One minor slip can easily render the fate of Wakanda’s reputation into something worse than assuming it’s a third world wasteland surviving on withering crops and starved animals.

T’Challa wishes he weren’t so weak willed. What’s causing this to happen now? How can Erik have this much control over him?

A callous hand slides up the front of his shirt, pressed close to his skin by the spandex cotton. T’Challa’s reaction is instantaneous. He jerks his head back and snaps his eyes shut as Erik finds and kneads his nipple. The reluctance still bubbles to the forefront of his mind when he hears the festivities explode with music in the distance. “What if someone—”

“No one comes around here this time of night. No matter the time of day.” Erik leans in to nip at the taunt cords of muscle in T’Challa’s neck. His next words are muffled and scorching. The prince feels as much as hears them punctuated against his flesh. “Don’t make me beg, baby boy. Three years is long enough, ain’t it?”

“You are the one who ran—”

“I had my reasons,” Erik breathes a balmy trail against his jaw.

T’Challa squeezes his eyes tighter until the shockwave of lust runs its course. They can go to a better place, not risk being caught. “Erik—”

“It might not happen again.” Erik takes T’Challa’s wrist in his palm and guides his hand down to cup his erection in T’Challa’s hand. “Feel that. S’the shit you’re doin’ to me. I can’t wait that long.”

“It will only take a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll must a nut by then.”

“One-minute man?”

“Shut up.” Erik’s hand slithers between them to cup all T’Challa’s erection.

His reaction is instantaneous. He jerks back, eyes snapping shut. T’Challa shakes his head violently back and forth in an effort to chase off the frenzy tickling low in his belly. A sound like an agonizing grunt bubbles out of his broke, a strangled, gurgling nose that probably causes Erik as to mourn as impatiently as T’Challa for the clothes keeping them from touching flesh to flesh.

“We’re mad for doing this,” T’Challa mutters, thumb tracing over length’s curve, so hot and smelling of sex through the clothes.

“I agree, but all things considered. . .” Erik’s hands skate over the span of T’Challa’s ribcage, coursing his rough hands over planes of smooth muscle and sculpted lines, to find purchase beneath the curve of T’Challa’s ass cheeks. “You ain’t the only one who’s been feelin’ a lil’ thirsty.”

T’Challa exhales a long, shuddering breath. He is beyond the point of his dick feeling close to ejaculation. “Have there been many,” he whispers and digs his nose into Erik’s neck. His scent’s potent, smelling so much like that night three years ago, the sweet musk of sex looming in the air, the sheets tangled between their sweat-coated bodies, and their essence a sticky mess all over. “Were there many after we—”

“I’m a man with needs,” Erik answers after a beat. “Only difference is, I remember what _you_ look like. . . what you smell like. . . your _taste_. The rest of them, they don’t mean shit ta’ me.”

T’Challa nips at Erik’s ear, using the tips of his fingers to tease the band around Erik’s shorts until he slips them through and pushes them with teasing slowness over the curve of his ass. When they are low enough, he bends his knee and angles his foot to step on the crotch, dragging them down as low as Erik’s knees. Erik’s fingers dig into T’Challa’s bare thighs hard enough to brand his fingerprints there.

T’Challa’s finally coaxed on his back when Erik lifts his leg and hooks it around his hipbone.

T’Challa looks long and entranced by the man above him. The sight’s frightening. Something exists that hadn’t been there when they last joined. As if these deep mahogany eyes have witness a darkness to deep to climb out of. He’s thrown out of his thoughts when a dry probing swirls and pokes at his ass.

“Who else has felt you here,” Erik murmurs, expression ominously murderous against the midnight backdrop. T’Challa can’t fathom what kind of man Erik is. A part of him wishes he knew more, wonders if he is as dangerous as his instincts are screaming about. But T’Challa can’t stop the thrill thrumming at the possibility.

“No one recently,” T’Challa gnaws on his bottom, concentrating on the pinpoint of pleasure to come as Erik breaches up to his knuckle. “Three years is an awful long time, Erik. I am a man with needs as well. I can only go so—” he flinches as the long finger is retracted to be moistened with spit and then returned with a second in tow. “—so long before I need my thirst quench.”

“What did ya do with ‘em?”

T’Challa realizes Erik may care more than his impassive expression is letting on if the hitch in his breathing is any indication.

And he wants to push further, provoke Erik a little more to see if he needles him into doing more to show his emotions.

“Surely you know the Prince of Wakanda isn’t short of admirers? So many willing bodies come to my bed. I doubt I could make you a full list—”

Erik smirks when T’Challa squirms beneath him. “None of em’s gonna hold a candle to me.”

“That’s a tall order to fill.” T’Challa’s tongue leaves a long, wet trail along Erik’s jawline. “With so much competition, you will have to exercise a rigorous effort to meet my standards.” He jerks particularly hard when the probing strikes home. T’Challa goes limp with relief.

“You won’t remember any of them after tonight.” Erik’s tone is excessively tender and vicious.

T’Challa bites into Erik’s shoulder, struggling not to groan in sync to Erik pushing into him. Both of his feet are hoist off the ground as Erik clutches the base of his thighs, so they automatically squeeze around his waist. A rock or maybe a sharp stick bears somewhere into his elbow, the grass feels itchy where the skin’s exposed on his lower back, but T’Challa abandons all care for the discomfort so that all his focus goes into the bite and stretch and burning.

The scorching contracting in contrast to Erik’s equally hot dick gently grinding forward, leaves T’Challa drunkenly glazed.

Erik cradles T’Challa’s head close and waits. It takes considerable willpower not to dive dick-deep into T’Challa’s body. Shit, the prince should be just another nameless body, but Erik can’t look past his face, his trusting fucking eyes—just the distressing way he gazes on like Erik’s magnificence has no limits.

He feels his vision dimming, let's it close off, and his head falls forward to rest against T’Challa’s as he lets himself revel in the novel sensation of being utterly at peace with life. T’Challa has the ability to do that, to help Erik reach for the light.

He begins to move. The fresh wave of pain starts all over for T’Challa. His face pinches, but he doesn’t protest it, doesn’t ask for Erik to stop or anything. Kind of bothering at this point would be suicidal to his libido. Erik’s gracious enough to move minutely, rubbing their hips, thrusts short and directly brushing that sweet spot. The pain’s cast to the nether regions of T’Challa’s mind. He starts to melt into the flow of Erik’s grinding into him and sighs. Slow, calculative spikes at his protest; the pace’s heavenly and torturous.

T’Challa wraps his arms around Erik’s neck, draws him in to press lips to his, to suckle his bottom lip between his teeth and sample his thick wet tongue. When Erik tries to pull away, T’Challa locks his hold on him because he remembers it so clearly, how much Erik doesn’t want that connection, but this close, he can’t ignore it. Their breathing, the intensity with every single touch, his rough breathing, no, he won’t let him have that again.

Erik lifts his hand to claw at T’Challa’s soft curls and smashes their mouths in a messier kiss. Then he’s released and moves to press his face in T’Challa’s throat, balmy breath leaving behind humid kisses, lost in tight despair and excitement. “Shit, baby boy, what’cha tryin’ do to me?”

“Keep you,” T’Challa answers, tensing and eagerly clinging to Erik’s torso.

“I know what you want from me.” Erik nips T’Challa’s earlobe, thrusts quickening. “You came for this. This is what you really wanted, ain’t it?”

T’Challa’s hands palm over his wide shoulders, scratching his nails in between the paths in between the bulbous blemishes collected on Erik’s back. They eventually settle on the rise of Erik’s ass and kneads the cheeks. He squeezes them with all his strength, pressing Erik’s hips into him so there’s no room to completely leave his body.

“What you are, _ah_ , giving me, _ah_ , others h-have already done.”

The intensity of Erik’s reaction can be felt through every glorious thrust. That heady, jealousy, visibly has him hardening to the brink of erupting. T’Challa squints his eyes through the pleasurable haze fogging around his eyes as Erik wildly drove into him. The pain and pleasure tangle in a web of drugged satisfaction.

T’Challa wants him to stop.

By Bast, he will kill Erik if he stops.

T’Challa arches with a startled grunt when Erik thrusts in hard and before he can gather his wits, he’s out and suddenly, almost violently, he’s back in. His orgasm arrives in a sudden, unexpected inferno and he’s vaguely aware his legs are quivering and his body’s reeling from the aftershocks as a third and fourth thrust ram in his ass. His senses blaze, pleasure racing all over him and he thrashes as the sensitivity kicks in.

Erik grabs T’Challa’s thigh and hikes it higher on his shoulder as he’s fucked through the ground. The prince doesn’t have the mental coherence to talk, so lost in the throes of hypersensitivity and the low buzz of pleasure stirring.

“Damn, T’Challa,” Erik hisses in his ear. “Shit baby, ya shit’s so damn good.”

T’Challa bites through the explosive surge coursing through him as a second, less intense orgasm comes forward. “Damn it, Erik,” he hoarsely whines, hips vibrating through the desire.

Erik’s orgasm rattles him so much, he spouts a snarl that sounds to have been snatched from the pit of his throat. His dick twitches and swells and thickly spills cum inside T’Challa’s body. He jerks per release. T’Challa’s toes curl, his thigh is close to cramping. He lowers his leg to curl around Erik’s waist as the man soon lays like deadweight on T’Challa’s chest.

He lists his head to the side, giving Erik access to leave more of his kissing and kittenish licks. Not like he’s in any rush to leave. T’Challa never knew how much he needed it until it’s happened; basking in this afterglow of this is what he’s been after. He tightens his thighs when Erik tries to shift off him.

“I stopped caring whether we’re caught long ago,” T’Challa answers the unspoken question, chuckling. “And I get the feeling if I let you go, you’ll run again.”

Erik pulls out a little and slowly slides back in. He’d meant it for a comforting gesture, but T’Challa’s head lollies to the side, and his legs spread to accommodate the mild grinding. “I’m bad for ya health, T’Challa,” he says.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t have a reason to lie.” Erik lays his hands on either side of T’Challa’s head, studying over his youthful face, those damnable eyes, the moisture collecting on his top lip.

"Let me be the judge of that. My mother's always said I have the knack for finding those of good character. You. . ." T'Challa tilts his head, fingertips tickling the nape of Erik's hair, where the baby hairs haven't quick reached to the peak of his dreads. "You are such a person, Erik Stevens. My instincts have never lead me stray." 

"You're wrong this time," Erik gruffly muses. “I’m gonna break your heart, baby boy. Don’t trust me with it.”

T’Challa’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’re so sure you have it?”

One of Erik’s hands rise to cradle T’Challa’s cheek, thumb smoothing over his bottom lip, tracing the arch of his cheek bone, the prickle of his goatee. He smirks, seeming to find what he’s been searching for. “Those brown sugar eyes tell it all.”

T’Challa turns his face in to kiss Erik’s palm. “I suppose. . . it was wishful thinking that you would feel the same bond as me?” he hates the rumble in his own breathing, the unsureness in his tone. It isn’t the way a prince should ever present himself.

Erik takes one of T’Challa’s hands and brings it to flatten against his chest. “Feel that,” he murmurs thickly. “You’re doing this shit to me.”

The swift, steady throb of Erik’s pulse vigorously pumps and pounds with a vengeance against his chest. T’Challa’s fingers clench the shirt and the heartbeat threads powerfully. “What is keeping you from me, Erik?”

A beat of silence, then, “Time. Responsibilities. Obligations. A whole plethora of fucked up shit guaranteeing I’ll never see happily ever after.”

“Erik, I can—”

“No, you can’t,” Erik sharply cuts off. His tone softens like the stroke of his fingertips touching the prince's jugular. The pulse of blood flowing life into his body makes his dick harden. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“Will you even try?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Why. There’s a million ways to answer that one word. Erik has a thousand good ones to tell. But over nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand to say why he can’t yet. If only it weren’t so difficult.

“. . . You make me weak, T’Challa. That. . . I don’t want that kind of shit in my life.”

T’Challa’s lips grimly form a thin line. He chuckles bitterly, looking to the side. “So then,” he swallows, unable to speak past the three years of what-if scenarios and future fantasies and the happiest reunions playing out in his mind every day, week, month, year. What on earth possessed him to develop those teenage dreams of fairytale endings and . . . _damn it._

He releases a short huff and roughly shoves Erik off him to sit up and pull up his pants. Erik silently watches him get dressed. “If you need time, its yours.”

“I don’t need time.”

T’Challa stiffens in buckling his belt. He looks over his shoulder. The look there belongs in the Museum of Incredibly Pissed Off.  Erik almost feels worried. Almost. T’Challa’s are just too pretty to hold that kind of flare of hatred.

“Fine,” T’Challa softly hisses. “I guess I have my long awaited answer as to what would happen when we met again. I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

Erik visibly winches at the implications and holds his tongue. He would rather T’Challa have the last word then provoke him into a useless argument. He secretly wonders if this is how T’Challa felt that night he left him in the hotel.

No. This way is different. Watching T’Challa crawl beneath the brush without a backwards glance, walking out of his life, no, this shit hurts way worse.

Erik isn’t sure who’s more hurt from this shit though.

This painful lump in his chest might give T’Challa’s heartache a run for its money.

His walk to wherever is a blur, mind scattered all over the place.

Life’s never been this complicated. There used to be a time if he wanted something, he could snatch it, keep it, spoil it, get rid of it. He can’t do that same type of shit with T’Challa. He’s too damn pure for some shit like that. But, fuck, Erik’s anchored down with so much rotten shit, just looking at T’Challa feels sinful.

There’s no telling how long he roamed the campus, the streets, the sidewalks. Erik just kept going until his feet brought him to a door. He looks up at the number, numbly recognizing it and knocks twice. The smell of eggs, honey biscuits and bacon drift through the door.

“Hold on,” comes the polite call.

Erik’s chest constricts. The morning air’s crisp, the bird chirps, soothing, the familiar scene of his home finally panning out in his peripheral.

The front door opens and immediately, N’Jobu knows his son is troubled. “N’Jadaka, what has happened?”

Erik looks down at his shoes, toeing the ground and sucks in. He laughs an ugly sound, and runs a shaky hand through his hair, tipping off the hood. “I, uh. . .” he coughs and manages a short whisper, “I think I fucked up, Daddy.”

“Oh, my son.” N’Jobu grabs his son and holds him close.

Erik lays his head on his father’s shoulder and holds back on doing what he hasn’t done in his father’s arms.

He’s never cried about having a fucked-up existence. No reason to start now.

He just welcomes the cozy comforts in his father’s strength and lets himself be cradled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Distorted Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies guys. I had a serious writer's block. Please enjoy the chapter and excuse any mistakes.

**Distorted Messages**

 

Erik’s had a full week of peace and quiet in his father’s company to contemplate how utterly stupid and fucked up his encounter with T’Challa had been. He’s thankful for the small miracle of having his father’s patience because he just isn’t ready to deal with an interrogation and he knew going to Shuri would have be much worse. Her crazy ass would have slam dunked him with twenty-one questions and then sum. She’s already blow his phone off the hook and rang his cell to the brink of the power dying from the strain of her constant calling and texting. 

Over three hundred missed calls and around the same for text messages. She’s nothing if not determined. Erik’s ignored her outreach to him, save for sending her one message to inform her he’s doing alright and that he needs some time to think. Naturally, she doesn’t give a flem-flam-damn what he wants and continued her rigorous calling and texting.

It’s taken a whole lot of inward loathing and confessing to admit he was concerned for his relationship with her. No doubt T’Challa’s spoke about what transpired between them and she’s probably shared her connection with Erik. This whole thing is just one big ole fucked up soup sandwich and he’s wedged right in the middle of it.

He shouldn’t have fucked T’Challa.

He’s glad as Hell he fucked T’Challa.

They should have talked.

He’s grateful they didn’t.

See, this is why he knows he’s fucked up in the head. His conscience won’t allow him to come to rational conclusions. Part of him is too caught up with maintaining the soldier demeanor that’s sole purpose is accomplishing his task and erasing any traces of human emotion from his psyche. Then there’s the slither of humanity remaining intact that he keeps bottled away for safe keeping until the time’s right to let it burst free and he can finally, _finally_ live like a normal man.

He’s been stuck in this limbo-mindset all morning and the turmoil is so daunting he had to leave the confines of his room to inhale the fresh, crisp morning air. Erik came to recline as far as the rocking chair allowed on his father’s porch, occasionally waving to whichever neighbors emerges to grab the newspaper, cut the grass or check the mail.

The front door creaks open to his father wobbling on the porch with a cup of something sweet smelling and steaming in each hand. Erik automatically rises to help his father into the swinging bench and grabs his share of the morning tea before situating himself. They’re quiet for a long while, basking in the sunshine, chirping birds and the dull blues music blaring from somebody’s backyard.

“You bare a great heaviness on your spirit, N’Jadaka,” N’Jobu eventually says, and Erik’s frankly surprised his father lasted this long.

Erik just hums to acknowledge he’s listening and sips at his tea.

“You know love has a strange way of making you feel weak.”

Erik damn near chokes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he manages in between sputtering and beats on his chest to dislodge where the fluids tried to strangle him. “You went too far there, Daddy. Ain’t nobody said anything about anybody bein’ in love. I’m not feelin’ T’Challa _that_ damn hard.”

N’Jobu smiles behind the rim of his mug. “Ah, so _it is_ the prince you’re thinking about?”

“Nah, see, I’m not about to let you bait me. Good try though.”

N’Jobu shakes his head. “I used to boost about being the proud father of a very intelligent child, but here I stand corrected. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you behave as stupidly as you’ve been lately.”

“That ain’t fair, Daddy,” Erik grumbles, rocking a little. “You act like you don’t know where I’m comin’ from. I thought you of all folks would be empathetic.”

“My case is different,” N’Jobu softly conveys. “Had I the chance to go about it differently, I. . .” N’Jobu sighs deeply, shaking his head. “No, if I could change the past, I doubt I would.” He looks to his son with a very fond smile. “You would not be here otherwise.”

“Ah, yeah, yeah.” Erik chuckles awkwardly behind his mug, quietens, then adds, “Guess it’s a good thing ya didn’t get your dick too wet, huh?”

“N’Jadaka!”

Erik cackles heartily. The tension evaporates like the fogs shrouding his inner troubles. He relaxes into the seat cushion and lets the warmth of his father’s company and his delicious tea fill him with the kind of peace he desperately needed. Maybe once he’s gotten himself together, he can figure out what route he wants to go.

For now, he enjoys his father’s great companionship.

“This cannot be healthy.”

Shuri tosses a used roll of toilet tissue at her brother’s back and saddens when it doesn’t achieve the desired reaction. She’d hoped he’d at least snap at her to behave like a well-bred princess or practice having better aim or something along the lines of promising revenge. But none of the above happens and she’s wondering if she should be worried.

Dealing with T’Challa’s sulking is about as vexing as watching paint dry. Her family arrived to visit her much earlier than planned and while she is joyous to see them here, all private activities and fun time must come to a screeching halt and she’s forced to act the way the royal princess of Wakanda is expected to. Any hopes of being overly expressive lie in when she’s alone with T’Challa, rarely with her mother and absolutely never around her father.

Shuri agreed to her brother staying over as long as he pleased the night he came knocking at her door looking worn and drained from what occurred between him and Erik. He’d apologized sincerely beforehand, assuming they’d been an item and that he feels horrible for destroying the fragile tread of love. Shuri was quick to assure him that there will never, ever been any type of romantic connection between her and Erik because it’ll be too much like dating a sibling. They’re merely friends and she wants so much to keep their friendship as close as it’s been.

But now, what she wants most is to wring his damn neck for being so selfish and self-centered. His rejection crushed T’Challa more than anything on the planet could have. Shuri had no idea how much T’Challa really cared for Erik until his moping began to drive her crazy. It just echoes her best friend’s affects on her brother.

Not anyone’s able to get under her brother’s skin like this; not the normally calm, cool and collected prince she’s admired over the years.

If only Erik knew how much power he possessed over her brother. Maybe he would rethink his position and be more considerate. Goodness knows, they both could use one another to balance the other’s quirks and perfections.

Shuri wishes she could cure her brother’s sadness. He’s been in her living room, dressed in the same boring white t-shirt and faded jeans, staring out her balcony window for ages. She glides in, adjusting the straps on her bookbag and comes up to wrap her arms around his waist, laying her cheek in the middle of his back.

“I wish to see you smiling more, brother. Forlornness doesn’t become you.”

His ribs move with the slow heaves of his breathing around her arms. “Is that what I am feeling?” he softly questions. “I imagine something so dreadful would have a stronger word.”

“If there is, I don’t want to ever find out,” Shuri muses.  She squeezes his waist and sniffs. “I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.”

“It’s my fault for chasing a one-sided affair.”

Shuri inwardly winches. “I do not think it’s as one-sided as you think.” She chews her bottom lip to keep from saying anything more for fear of revealing Erik’s secret.

T’Challa snorts. “I think he made it abundantly clear that he is not interested in anything more than sex. He got what he wanted from me,” his voice tampers off to a strained growl. “Damn me for falling for his charms and giving it to him. I was a fool.”

“So is he if he cannot see you for the amazing man you are,” Shuri sharply whispers. “It is his loss.” She shrugs against his back. “A pity. I really wanted him as a brother-in-law.”

“I doubt he would have moved to Wakanda anyway.”

“Why there? Could you not move here?”

“I will not abandon our country, Shuri. That is something I can say I love more than my own needs.”

“I guess you’re right.” Shuri drums her finger over his stomach, thinking. “I do not want you stuck in here alone.” She circles around to suggest, “Why not go join Mother and Baba?”

“I’ve seen the sights here. . .” The pain on his face says that many of them will remind him of a certain person.

Shuri tries another idea. “You can come join me in my classes. I only have two and they’re not long.” She’s all smiles, tugging him towards the bathroom. “We have time for you to shower and get dressed. Once my classes end, you can take me for ice cream. You’ve long neglected your big brotherly duties. I expect to be fully compensated during your stay.”

T’Challa cracks a tiny smile as he’s manhandled into his sister’s bathroom. “I’m sorry, who was it that decided on a whim to pursue an American education?”

“I do it for the sake of knowledge. Now shoo, go, go, go!”

“Fine,” T’Challa resolves himself to pacifying his sister’s request and steps inside. “Please pick me out some nice clothes. Nothing that screams royalty.”

“Already on it!” More or less anyway. It’s such a rotten trick to pull on her brother, but she knows it’ll be worth it in the long run.

Erik and she have fallen into a routine of leaving behind clothes in the other’s home. There are loads of Erik’s outfits tucked in some of her drawers and closet. Some are a little bit loose around the chest for T’Challa, because Erik’s thicker, but the pants will fit perfectly.

She finds the perfect attire and nearly squeals. It’s so cute and perfect for what she has planned.

Now, if she can just get Erik to answer his phone.

By Bast, if there’s any kind of miracle that should be blessed, it’s for her best friend to answer his phone. He cannot resist her when she asks for his help.

At least she hopes he can’t.

Only one way to find out.

** Somewhere in Manhattan **

Even at night, gleaming profusely like a bejeweled carpet, Manhattan’s skyline always makes his stomach churn. High murder rates, crime statistics off the charts and the level of judicial corruption could impress the Black Mafia.

He gnaws his nails to the bed of his fingertips, pacing in the dark office building, twenty stories above the city’s busy streets. Moonlight shun through cellular blinds, casting striped illumination as far back as the front of a mahogany desk. Sensually slow, Biagio Antonacci music purrs from a small portable radio.

The agent halts his fourth round of pacing to glare into the shadowed end of the office. “Where is he? Does he know the time and place to meet us?”

Ulysses Klaue watches him in rapt silence for a full minute, idly swirling the red wine in his flute. Then he chuckles darkly, stepping into the staggered lighting. “You’re too tense, my friend. It takes time creeping through cracks.”

“What if he’s been caught? Do you have any idea how massive of a scandal this is?”

“Umberto’s very adept at keeping a low profile. If he is caught, he knows living isn’t an option.” Klaue fully breaks away the shady confines, easing a hand in his khaki trousers, and takes a leisure sip of his wine.

His spiky, cropped hair and stubble goatee are cleanly trimmed. He’s wearing a finely tailored olive-green dress shirt and speaks in between his native tongue and English.  He could never pass for anything other than what he was; a deranged criminal hell bent on dominating the world. All the while, indulging in some rather spine-tingling activities on the side.

Klaue looks over his anxious company before bemusedly shaking his head. “Take ease, my friend. Have a glass of wine.” Another lazy chuckle. “You’re too wound up for my blood.”

“I can’t relax!” the agent snaps, hastily swiveling his head around the office and out the window as the grips of paranoia take hold. “Need I remind you that Fury keeps a tight watch on every single one of us? There’s a microchip lunged so far up my anus if I open my mouth, you’ll see it.” The agent steps away, running a hand over his head. “Every second I stay in here with you, I further incriminate myself.”

“That can easily be explained.”

“In the middle of the night, in a Chicago office building?”

Klaue’s smile becomes seductive.

Even in the dark, the agent feels the heat off that expression and shudders in disgust. “Not in a million years.”

“As if I’d freely give it.” Klaue coolly glides closer to the window, green eyes languidly going over the old city’s midnight splendor. He finishes the last of his wine, swishing the tart taste on the bed of his tongue before swallowing. “This proposition you’ve asked of me, not that it bothers me to pursue it, the money’s good, but it seems a tad drastic.”

It’s the first time the criminal’s chosen to bring up the purpose of his role in this scheme in the five months he’s been meeting with the agent off and on. Small favors became bigger ones. They’ve reached a new level of danger now. And as knee deep as they were in this, there’s no turning back.

“I’m paying you to follow orders, not have a conscience,” the agent sharply says. “Backing out isn’t an option. For either of us.”

“Who said anything about backing out? I have little to lose. You on the other hand, well, I needn’t elaborate.” Klaue casually moves away from the window to settle on a burgundy couch set vertically from the window, crossing one leg over the other, clasping his hands in his lap. “You know, for a loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. cur, you certainly have no issue with tarnishing your agency’s reputation. Such disloyalty would be frowned upon in my mother land.”

“All in the name of ever lasting peace and order. I’m sure the director would agree when it’s all said and done.”

Five knocks suddenly rasp against the one-way entrance, two hard, three sharp. Klaue waits until the information is pushed beneath the door before standing to retrieve the manila envelope. Klaue edges his finger through the strip of tape keeping the contents within and flips it open. The agent is quickly by his side, bouncing on the tips of his toes, eyes switching from paper to man, man to paper.

Inside, as expected are the three files requested, all with layers of privately detailed information on the subjects. Klaue boringly skims over each picture and data. All are respected officers of the S.H.I.E.L.D, reputable militant documentation. Current duty stations, family records, etc. are all provided. Nothing too dark in their history worth blackmailing over besides the usual shady deals they’re tasked to.

A bunch of squeaky-clean, warmongers living in secret.

Klaue flips through every profile, carefully reading over every provided background and staring at the pictures provided. All fine men, all qualified soldiers. Seeing well established careers like these almost makes him want to renew his contract with the military again.

Klaue smirks darkly before tossing the files on his desk and walking around to retake his seat and refills his flute.

During his scrutiny, the agent’s paced every inch of the office, darting watchfully at Klaue for any signs of good news. Finally, the agent reaches his boiling point and stalks haltingly to the desk.

“Well?” He hopes the sound of grinding impatience can be heard in his tone. “Can we use any of it?”

Klaue takes his time, reclining in his chair, minutely separating each photo from the folders, laying each out right on the edge of the lights. Two sips later, he leans forward and taps each photo with an explanation.

“My friend,” Klaue braids his fingers together and perches his chin on top, staring directly in the agent’s eyes, expression neutral. He needn’t express his displeasure at being rushed. The slight edge in his voice is enough of a head start warning, which the agent visibly remembers and steps back, hands up. “Now we have here, the three reigning agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. The ones whose contracts expire within the coming year or they will have reached the required buyout from their contracts. I’ve had seventeen informants trained, recruited, and transported to every local HQ across the globe, tracking every computer file, emails, receipts, financial accounts, even down to text messages and not even one has been able to find a shred of credible evidence that will dissolve their agreements. . . I’ve wasted valuable assets funding this petty crusade.”

“No!” The agent whirls around, eyes wide and panicked. “No, there has to be something. You cannot sit there and tell me that all of them has lived lives totally void of crime! There has to be something damningly credible to shake them off their pedestals; a street ticket, short term incarceration, something!”

“This mission was a dog from the start. It barely has the fleas to scratch.” Klaue nonchalantly flips through the documents. “But if you believe them dirty, I’ll keep digging. At your expense of course. You’ve wasted enough of my time trying to sate your ridiculous pink clouding.”

The agent’s mouth flaps open and close, face reddening from chin to hairline. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Klaue! You honestly think I would go to such extremes if I didn’t know how valuable they are to the agency? They’re our most decorated soldiers and none of them wants to pledge their obligations to our country.”

“Allowing them the chance to live normal lives bothers you that much?”

“No, them throwing away all they’ve trained to protect bothers me. Especially this brat here. I can’t stand him, but he’s our best and he’s determined to earn enough to purchase his and his father’s contracts. At the rate he’s going, Erik Stevens will void his contract within a year’s time!”

“So?” says Klaue. “Why not put a stopper to his missions?”

“Because the damned fool has a solid one hundred percent success rate. No one else in the entire organization has touched his record. It’ll be suspicious if he’s suddenly cut off from the S and A ranked missions and we can’t afford to lose an asset like him!”

As the agent fumes in silence, Klaue rubs his chin thoughtfully, dark green eyes gleeful as he reads between the lines of Erik Stevens background check.

“My friend.”

The man glares.

“I may have something in mind,” Klaue thinks a moment, then shakes his head. “It’ll hasten the deadline. Should I find something more worth summoning you for, I’ll give you a call.”

“Right,” the agent slowly drawls after a beat of quietness. “Well then, you know how to contact me.” He starts towards the door.

“One more thing?”

Said man pauses just as his fingertips brush the doorknob, casting an impatience stare over his shoulder.

Klaue studies over the dark-skinned man’s facial features, blunt fingernails delicately tracing over the picture. “If there’s fun to be had during this mission, I can’t guarantee I won’t indulge myself.”

A gradual frown wrinkles the agent’s face. He rolls his eyes and shrugs, turning the knob. “Knock yourself out doing whatever keeps your twisted mind whirring.” And he leaves, door clicking behind him.

Klaue coolly smirks and returns to reading through his target’s files. That pretty face sure reminds him of another tender morsel that got away years ago. It may be time to reintroduce himself to an old partner. . .

**_‘Erik, please bring my anthropology book to me. I left it on my kitchen counter.’_ **

Erik sucks his teeth as he readjusts his jacket sleeve around his wrist. Folks probably think he’s nuts for wearing a jean jacket in this heat, but fuck it, he’s a rebel. If he catches heat stroke, then he can say he went down looking fly. But that aside, he’s pissed as all get out that Shuri was able to lure him from his safe haven because her dumb ass forgot her textbook.

A-freaking-gain.

This makes the sixth time in two months. She’d leave her damn head on the couch if it wasn’t attached to her shoulders.

And he can’t understand why she’s even taking anthropology. It’s not in her degree plan. Neither is meteorology, metallurgy and Norse mythology, but she’s developed some strange obsessions lately. He blames it on her weird fascination with that long-haired blond bitch with the hammer.

Thump, Tron, Thor or some shit.

Their last semester here is the easiest. They only have to fill the spaces with electives to earn the number of credits required to graduate and she went ballistic, choosing a bunch of out of pocket stuff. Erik choose some simple courses to fill the time with; subjects not needing his full attention to pass and where all he must do is take the tests and do the assignments because he’ll be damned if he attends any-fucking-thing. He tried the in-class learning and he was bored into masturbating to his teacher’s voice and picking on the jackass white boys who think he’s nothing more than ghetto trash that got lucky.

Yeah, his G.P.A says differently, and it burns them up knowing it.

He arrived at the school with about fifteen minutes to spare waiting on Shuri’s class to end. Erik text her to meet him in the school courtyard at the fountain. She doesn’t have more classes scheduled for the rest of the day after this one, so he’ll treat her to her favorite lunch and call it even for ignoring her all week. That should be an adequate apology in his opinion.

Erik doesn’t have it in him to say those two sissified words: ‘ _I’m sorry.’_

Because he isn’t sorry. His reasons were justified. He needed the space to think. He can’t do that around her and doesn’t feel like being chewed out for being the jerk.

Erik impatiently checks the time on his cell phone. He knows good and damn well that thirty minutes have elapsed since Shuri’s class ended. If her air-headed ass forgot about their meet, he’ll belt her ass to a tree.

He stands after another five minutes past, fully prepared to find something sizable to bash her head with when he feels a warm body softly press into his side and the book’s snatched out of his hand.

Erik whips around, mouth full of cuss words until he sees Shuri’s expression. He clamps his mouth shut and rolls his eyes. “What the fuck is supposed to be wrong with you?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I tried to help,” she says, voice sour as her expression.

“What’re you on about, ‘lil girl?”

Shuri exhales heavily, looking over her shoulder. Erik follows her line of vision.

His eyes home in immediately to the dark-skinned man wearing what appears to be a burnished navy and orange button-up shirt with dark grey white washed jeans and black boots. Erik’s suffered shock twice since meeting T’Challa but seeing the man in what appears to be his clothes. Erik doesn’t know whether to beat Shuri like a Hebrew slave or kiss her square on the mouth for pulling some cheap, sneaky mess like this.

Erik wore that same outfit to a frat party the month before last and it looked tailored to his body. T’Challa’s wearing it like the shit was made better for him. The prince looks every bit as tantalizing as he did the first night they had sex. Erik’s libido lurches in his belly like butterflies clawing to be free from a web of orgasms. He’s never wanted to fuck someone into oblivion like he does right. His dick’s getting heavy, his breathing is becoming labored and. . . and. . .

Erik blinks through his glasses. He pulls them off to clean with his long-tee and slips them back on. His vision isn’t going blurry and there’s no smudge on the lens. So, what he’s seeing is exactly what he thinks it is.

He slices Shuri in half with a glare hotter than lava. “Who the fuck is that talkin’ to your brother?”

“Gee Erik, how are you doing? I’m fine, thanks for checking in with me in the seven days you left me all alone!”

He deserved that. Erik gives her quick hug and a pat on the head. “There, now answer my question.”

Shuri holds up her hands. “Don’t get mad at me. I tried to set you up, but,” she nods towards the white man laughing with her brother, “that guy works fast. That’s what took me so long. I was trying to pull T’Challa away, but he didn’t want to stop talking. Apparently, they’re old friends.”

Old friends don’t touch each other like that. This white boy’s far too close for Erik’s comfort. And whatever the fuck he’s saying isn’t all that goddamn funny. Erik never knew jealousy could rear its head and chomp your ass this damn fast.

The impulse to gut this man is horribly immense.

That may very well be in this bitch’s future.

He and T’Challa may not be able to get together now, but that doesn’t mean they’re through. It’s been a week and he’s already moving forward? Hell no. Erik will be damned if he’s flung aside like a used condom.

“Erik,” Shuri’s accented voice worries his ear, “I know that look. It’s the same one you gave Samuel when he asked for my number.”

“Sammie’s alive, ain’t he?”

“Only after you made it clear that having sex with me will be the last thing he does before his funeral.” She tugs helplessly on his arm, struggling to keep from laughing at the wrinkles etched in his brow.  “Please don’t act rashly. I don’t think there’s anything going on between them.”

At T’Challa’s sudden outlandish laugh, Erik nearly drags Shuri off her heels.

“Erik,” she frantically shrieks. “No, no, no. Not like this. If you want to talk with T’Challa, this is the wrong approach.”

“Fuck that!” he snaps. “T’Challa. Yo, T!”

T’Challa looks up and around for the source of the person calling his name. When he sees Erik his entire body locks from head to toe, joints frozen immobile.  He hadn’t noticed him until just now. T’Challa thought he was one hundred percent tuned to Erik’s presence. Or maybe he still is. It would explain the shudder electrifying his body.

A hand comes down on his shoulder and gently massaging him out of his stupor. “What is it?” Steve Rogers whispers near his ear, full of concern and heat and the kind of reserved tenderness that can tame the evilest villain.

T’Challa narrowly avoids calling back out to Erik. There’s no point. Erik made his point clear. Which means the curdling invading his lower belly and gnawing at his innards make no sense.

“You know that young man?”

T’Challa recognizes that tone. It’s one of a captain prepared to defend by any means necessary. The prince grazes fingers over Steve’s wrist. “An associate,” he says. “A close one. We did not part on good terms.”

“Hmm, the little fella sure looks like he’s taken a strong liken to you. You sure there isn’t more to it than that?”

T’Challa rolls his eyes to the sky and chuckles. “I’m still trying to figure it out honestly. It’s complicated,” he shares. “I’m sorry. I hate our first meeting in five years has turned awkward.”

“Nonsense, we could’ve met up again in the middle of the Artic and I’d be happy to see you again, your highness.”  

“I feel the same, Mr. Rogers.”

A teasing twinkle appears in those kind blue eyes. “I wish you’d get used to calling me Steve. I love how it sounds coming from you.”

T’Challa lifts an eyebrow. “Ah, but then that would mean for you to call me by my first name and you don’t have it in you to be impolite.”

“If his majesty permits it, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

T’Challa chuckles with the American soldier. “Granted. I order you to call me T’Challa from hence forth.”

“An order I will gladly follow. . . T’Challa.” Steve slings an arm around T’Challa’s shoulders, massaging the nape of his neck slowly. “And my offer to reconcile still stands. For old times sake?”

T’Challa’s voice dips low, assuming a teasing light. “I don’t know what’s left to catch up on. We talked about all we’ve missed, all we’ve shared. What’s really left?”

“New beginnings,” chuckles Steve. He makes a bolder move and lets his hand slide from T’Challa’s neck to catch the center of his back, expertly steering him nearer. Pink lips perking in a boyish smirk, he lowers his eyes and says, “that is, if you’re not opposed to the idea? I’m not familiar with Wakandian customs when it comes to courtship, but I’m willing to learn.”

T’Challa doesn’t doubt it at all. Steve Rogers has always been a man of few flaws and a great many talents. There’s nothing beyond his scope of learning or obtaining. In the five years since they’ve lain eyes on each other, he looks unchanged except for the few signs of increase muscle around his biceps and neck and a tough of dark gold highlighting his blond hair. The sun has tanned his skin from wherever the Army’s had him stationed and the influence of the country’s culture has left him with some words mingled in a foreign accent. It’s barely there, but the scarce vowels and enunciations are charming to the ears. T’Challa doesn’t let himself concentrate too hard to place the accent’s origin.

“I’ll consider it,” T’Challa murmurs. “It has been a while and. . .” One long glance behind him says it all.

Steve lets his hand fall away. “Oh, am I too late?”

“Yes. No. It’s—”

“Complicated,” Steve muses. “But it’s not a definite ‘no’, so there’s still a chance.”

T’Challa laughs. “You’re nothing if not persistent.”

“Only when it matters.” Steve’s shy smile curves higher. “You still have my number in case you want to meet up again?”

“Of course.”

“Use it. Please?” Steve kisses T’Challa’s brow before he has the chance to say yes or no. Then he’s walking away towards the main campus entrance, tall, strong, gorgeous, and loyal.

It’s always the ones who seem the best for you that the heart never wants. 

“So that’s what we’re doing now?”

T’Challa sighs and slowly turns to meet Erik’s fiery glare with one of his own. “I’m surprised to see you here.” He folds his arms. “Wasn’t it you who—”

“Who the fuck is that?” Erik snaps.

“A friend,” T’Challa sharply retorts. “What’s it to you? We are not together. Or did you forget the exchange we had after you fucked me?”

“I—” Erik claps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth. “Fuck!” He growls. “Damn it, T, this isn’t on me. I got a ton of shit on my plate and I can’t get distracted.”

T’Challa shrugs his shoulder. “So? I’m not standing in your way. We already established this.” He starts to walk by.

Erik catches him around the arm and pulls back. “I’m saying that my issues aren’t gonna always get in the way. We. . . we can try to do us soon.”

Hope dares to bloom in T’Challa’s chest like a stoked fire. “When?”

“As soon as I handle my business.” Erik takes both of T’Challa’s hands in his. “Please T, all I’m asking for is a lil’ bit of time. You have no idea the kind of shit I’m tangled up in. I wanna get with ya, but not at the expense of losing on what I have goin’ on. Can you understand that?”

T’Challa licks his lips, tearing his gaze from Erik to their clasped hands. Two different shades, his hands larger, yet Erik’s seeming to be the ones holding all of him.

Why did Bast bless this stranger with so much power over him?

It’s unjust.

T’Challa blows through his mouth, pulling his hands free. “I will think about it.”

“T—”

“I will think about it,” T’Challa reiterates a little stronger. “You hurt me already. I have not forgiven you yet. Give me the same time you want me to give you. Can you understand that?”

The barb hits home like he wants. T’Challa’s satisfied to know the power of persuasion is mutually detrimental to both of their willpowers. He takes the small victory and departs with it, bypassing Erik and shooting Shuri a knowing glare that vows a stern talking to for her meddling.

But he is secretly grateful.

He now has a little more clarity and some important decisions to consider.

 


	7. Strained Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for such a long way. Life has been incredibly demanding of my spare time. Maybe some of you guys are still reading and if so, thanks so very much. Please enjoy and excuse any glaring mistakes.

**Strained Service**

 

 

Not a fucking thing has gone right for Erik since last week.

It’s bad enough he has to watch from afar as this new pretty white boy tours the campus like he owns the property, but to discover he’s recently been hired as part of the staff? The fool’s one of the new commanders of the ROTC program; some newly installed training session where civilian students and enlisted soldiers who take tests to participate. Those with exemplary knowledge in militant combative, leadership, knowledge, and know how to conduct themselves with patience, score the best seats and ranks.   

The objective’s shady and rather spontaneous of the school to adopt. Erik would have known if the college was in he fixings of creating a new curriculum to slate in with the other classes. And for it to suddenly open towards the end of the semester? Perhaps if it were meant to recruit and later become accessible, that’d be one thing, but no, the opening date is set to begin as soon as next Monday.

The ROTC breezeway used to be the route he took when coming from the cafeteria or when escorting Shuri from one class to the next on a whim. Now he avoids it like the plague. Just seeing that white boy glide across the campus sets Erik’s blood a boil. His bitch ass is lucky that T’Challa’s been MIA from both of them or there will be some serious problems.

On top of Erik trying to wrangle his jealousy complex, something’s been amiss with his fucking bank account. He keeps a diligent track of his finances, keeping them divided between three different accounts: one with his American name, one titled under his native title and the last as one he stores less than three percent of his earnings to live off of.

He checks his shit at the end of the week because S.H.I.E.L.D provides a living expense for all their agents depending on where they’re stationed. He makes a cool five grand and that amount’s siphoned from and transferred to his father’s civilian account to help him keep up with his bills and medical expenses.

Lately the numbers have fluctuated and decreased at random intervals. Last week he could have sworn that he had several hundred grand stored over. Now, the statements are listing as less than a few grand. Not much that he’ll miss, but money is one of the few things he plays about. This is the third time he’s called his bank just to hear it read back a different number from the last time he called. Of course, he can’t check online. S.H.I.E.L.D’s swiss accounts are suddenly off radar due to some recoding shit he got a memo about just two days ago.  

Erik’s only been mildly concerned about the missing loot. It isn’t money he’ll die if he doesn’t have, but even the tiniest fraction of his load being taken is stealing the chance for buying out his father’s contract. Erik could give three shits for himself. He can handle whatever the agency threw at him, but he’s working on a damn deadline. His father’s contract is scheduled to end by this time next year and Erik can’t afford the slightest deficiency. 

And to just add to the pile of shit he’s dealing with, his father called early this morning asking if Erik minded coming over in the morning to help him around the house. It isn’t like N’Jobu to ever request help. Which explains why Erik’s careening down the interstate, dipping and weaving and cutting off cars in his hurry to reach his father’s house.

Erik’s pissed, worried, frustrated and annoyed.

It’s like somebody in heaven’s getting some wicked thrill with fucking up his life.

In the usual thirty minutes it takes Erik to drive from the school to his father’s, he does it in less than ten and pulls into the drive way, narrowly missing hitting a dark colored 2018 Lexus LS 500 parked parallel to the house. Erik shuts off the car, eyeballing the car for details or signs for who it belongs to. The tag reads NFS3654.

The initials click fast and he severely curses under his breath. The fuck is that son of a bitch doing here of all places?

Something told him not to leave behind his Glock. He keeps it and his Beretta loaded at all times. The Glock stays stored in his glove compartment, to which he returns to his car to retrieve, along with injecting his silencer. The gun’s tucked in the back of his jeans and covered with his red t-shirt.

No doubt he’s alerted the visitor to his presence so there’s no point in exercising stealth. Erik goes up to the front door and uses his spare key to let himself in.

“Daddy!”

Erik yells his father’s name down the hall once and again when he steps into the center of the living room. The furniture’s all arranged in neat order, nothing’s toppled over and there’s no signs of forced entry. It even smells like Lysol and Clorox Disinfecting Wipes. If there was gun powder or scent of decay, Erik would still smell it. Physical fitness and superior intelligence isn’t all S.H.I.E.L.D trains them for.

N’Jobu, in Erik’s view, takes a painstakingly long while to emerge from the spare den with his goatee unkempt and his close-cropped hair having grown an inch thick and dry around the scalp, as if the grips of sickness cling like a cloak. As soon as N’Jobu sees Erik, he leans heavily on his cane in the stride he tries to take in reaching him. Erik meets him halfway, taking his free hand in both of his, and pulls him close.

“Daddy, how many are there?” Erik whispers, discreetly passing his gun to his father’s hand.

N’Jobu keeps his grip loose. “Only Fury, my son. It is a business call,” his sentence tampers off into a series of harsh coughs.

“What business he’s got here with you?”

“Grown folks business, young blood,” Fury appears, saying in a voice that renders armies mute and only serves to grate Erik’s last nerves. “If I have anything I need to address directly to you, I don’t have any problems doing so.”

Erik instinctually moves to block his father from the director. “I thought I told ya’ll whatever shit you got for him is to be transferred to me. Our contracts were condensed so all of his missions and mine fall to me!”

“I don’t need a reminder of the agreed terms. All stipulations and negotiations are still in effect.”

“Then what the fuck are you doin’ here?”

Nick Fury coolly glances over Erik’s shoulder, dismissing his company entirely when N’Jobu steps around him. “You wanna discuss the arrangement with him or shall I deliver the news?”

“What news?” Erik demands. He looks at his father and feels a wave of helpless love wash over him for the sadness fogging his dark eyes. “Daddy?”

N’Jobu gently coaxes Erik to the couch and shakily sits, patting the space next to him. Erik keeps a wary eye on Fury who hasn’t budged an inch or doesn’t look as if he’ll be preparing to leave anytime soon. It’s like him to be like this when in the middle of a compromise. He doesn’t care to wait to hear the results, especially if he’s the one making the offer. That gives Erik all the more reason to be ready to pull the bitch’s shit off his shoulders should what he’s about to hear give him reason to.

N’Jobu takes Erik’s hand, avoiding his eyes. Erik shoots a glare at Fury as fierce as he can. No way his father would behave like some meek weakling unless it’s something too serious for him to cope with. He’ll definitely kill the man now.

“Director Fury has propositioned, N’Jadaka,” N’Jobu slowly explains, easily drawing Erik’s attention back to him. At Erik’s hardened frown, N’Jobu rises his head with distilled pride and lets out a low, sputtering exhale. “In exchange for your contract to be nullified, he will have me taken—”

“Fuck no!” Erik surges to his feet, reaching behind his back. “I already knew it’d be some stupid shit!”

N’Jobu yanks his son down by the back of his pants and snatches the gun from his back in the same speed and expertise Erik long thought was hampered because of his handicap. In the midst of his shock, his gun’s dismembered and tossed to the floor, N’Jobu daring his son with vile promise in his gaze if he tries to defy him. Erik reluctantly returns his father’s hardened stare to indicate he’s listening, but likely isn’t going to like it.

“In exchange for nullifying your contract, I will be sent to Britain for physical therapy. From there, I’ll be retrained to join the ranks again.”

Erik leans away. “So you’ll have to stay on their payroll for how much longer once that’s done?”

N’Jobu licks his bottom lip, closes his tired eyes and says, “Indefinitely.”

“You. . . what. . .” Erik’s eyes slowly pivot to Fury. “What kind of fucked up deal is that? Even with extensive training, he’s been outta the game for over ten years. You can’t expect him to keep up with the demands forever!”

Fury wipes a tired hand over his good eye. “I’m not anticipating your father performing any miraculous feats under my employ, but of many agents his age, he’s the only one with the kind of foreign telecommunications security experience that rivals my own. He’s an asset as much as you. Quite frankly, I’d prefer to keep you both locked down, but I’m not beyond being persuaded. So long as it’s for the benefit of international and intergalactic service,” he shrugs.

“You’ve got Coulson and a shit ton of other drones who know more about that foreign bullshit!” Erik climbs to his feet, fists clenched. “There’s more to it than that.” He sees his father stiffen out of the corner of his eye. That proves his statement’s dead on.

Fury lifts an eyebrow and reaches up to massage his temple. “Your father’s got a unique Wakandian blood type,” he deadpans. “That was originally why he was commissioned into S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s agreed to have it tested and cultivated into a serum—”

In the next moment, the glint of silver semi-automatic catches in the afternoon sunshine. Erik charges into Fury’s chest and slams his back into the wall, pressing he gun an inch from Fury’s eye. “I knew yo’ old ass was full of shit. You ain’t ever been about helpin’ a brother out. You dumb as fuck if you think I’m gonna let you use my daddy as a lab rat.” The gun clicks warningly. “I got a few reasons in this chamber why you and him won’t be goin’ through with this deal.”

Fury’s face is calm, free of fear. “Kill me all you want. Just be ready to reap the consequences.”

“Am I supposed to be scared of your pack of pussies? My bullets don’t discriminate!”

“N’Jadaka, enough!” N’Jobu yells.

Erik keeps his eyes trained on Fury’s face. “You aren’t gonna go through with this, Daddy. This smells shady. We’ll stick to my plan and both of us will get out of this shit free of them!”  

“Your father’s contract expires in thirteen months,” says Fury. “From what I saw in your account, you’re going to have to participate in a lot of missions between now and then to meet the price.”

“I bet you’d know,” snaps Erik. “You’ve been sneaking thousands of dollars out of my account. You think I wouldn’t catch on? Now the shit makes sense.”

Fury narrows his eye thin as paper. He shifts it briefly to N’Jobu, then to Erik and shakes his head. “Alright, consider this discussion settled.”

Erik almost drops his gun. “Just like that?”

Fury moves the gun from his face. “Another matter just came up.” He taps his ear and nods once to N’Jobu. “We’ll be in touch in case you change your mind.”

“Believe me, he won’t!” Erik growls. “I’m gonna get the money we need and the day I tear that shit up, I’m coming to whoop you, Coulson and everybody else’s ass down the ladder!”

Fury smirks for the first time since arriving. “We’ll see, young blood.” The director sweeps out the door in his long black trench coat, leaving behind his ominous aura and a thick tension between father and son.

Erik goes to the window to watch Fury dip inside his car and peel off down the street. He whips around to face his father, outraged. “What the Hell were you thinkin’? You can’t trust shit outta that fool’s mouth!”

“Do not take that tone with me, boy!”

“Do you have a death wish? They would have drained you dry.” Erik paces up and down the floor. “And why am I just now learning that we got some wacky ass DNA?

“It is not something as elaborate as Fury made it sound. We just have a stronger immune system then most.”

“Strong how?”

N’Jobu wipes his wrist across his mouth and shudders at it. “It is not important.”

“Like Hell it ain’t!”

“N’Jadaka—”

“Tell me!”

N’Jobu doubles forward, coughing heavily into his palm. Erik nearly relents, nearly of course. The urgency to rush to his father’s side eats at him like a school of piranha, but he resists. He may be pissed, but he isn’t so heartless as to leave his father suddenly kill over. He leaves his father to have his coughing fit before letting in on him again. He’s too damn angry to show sympathy.

N’Jobu heaves in a shallow noise and sniffles. “We are insusceptible to most sicknesses.” He inhales sharply and quietly continues, “When our blood is introduced to foreign antigens, it produces a neutralizing toxin. It isolates the illness and reconstructs the—” a sharp, hoarse cough, “the disease, making it tolerable long enough for our body to develop its own kind of immunization. Once it figures out the composition, our immune system adapts and memorizes the disease. Whatever it was before, we will not ever contract again.”

The next round of coughs stirs Erik into action before he realizes it. He retrieves a moist warm washcloth and a cup of ice water, carrying it to the living room. By the time he returns, N’Jobu is stretched out along the couch. Erik folds the rag and lays it over his father’s forehead, then moves to sit by his feet.

“You planned on telling me before or after I had kids?” he soon asks. “Because it’d be nice to know ahead of time I’m a walking syringe.”  

 “Look at how you are behaving now? I could not tell you as a child that we hail from a dead clan in Wakanda. I could not tell you as an adult because I am banned from the country. My battles should not be your own. I will do anything to help you live a long and prosperous life. . . You are my son. . . my only family.”

Erik gives his father an exasperated stare. “Ya told me you left on your own because you couldn’t deal with the political backlash. And . . . I always thought we had some family in Africa.”

“Aye, so very few. I think there are. . .” N’Jobu quiets in deep thought. “Counting myself, four, but the bloodline has become so tainted and thinned through outside marriage I fear I may be the last full blood Ashanti-Fang.” N’Jobu tries to draw himself into an upright posture, but a series of nasty dry coughs keeps him anchored on his back. He shakes his head at Erik’s outstretched hand.

Erik keeps it hovering near. Then a frown creases his brow as the realization of something dawns heavily. “Why are you sick now? If we’re supposed to have some supercharged shit in us then—”

N’Jobu meets his eyes. Erik can’t tell what he’s trying to communicate through the look. Not that he would have been able to with what is happening. Erik froze the moment a redness became more visible, almost like a second layer surrounding the whole of N’Jobu’s sclera.

Tongue cleaving to the top of his mouth, Erik catches his father’s hand when his body violently convulses, veins swelling in his neck and face. “Daddy—Daddy!”

N’Jobu chokes, his left arm flings out as his right leg bends as if the bones there converted to pure rubber. Erik grits his teeth, face pale and a cold sweat filming his face. The panic surging through him wants to scream and shout and cry for help, but he maintains a calm disposition. He doesn’t know what’s happening to his father, but he can identify some of the symptoms and utilize the procedures required to treat them until help arrives.

He whips out his cell phone and presses one button. The signal will summon the closest agents. Erik prays Barton or Romanova respond first because he can’t tolerate anyone else being near his father.

“OK, Daddy, breathe, try to breathe.” Erik works N’Jobu to the floor in the midst of his body’s thrashing. Erik turns him on his side and bends his leg. He should have paid more attention. Fuck his anger, fuck his frustrations, fuck all that emotional shit, none of it matters. Why hadn’t he worried more? For fuck’s sake, his father called him over saying he needs help around the house. Since when has his father ever needed any kind of help to do anything? He’s too proud to accept aid.

And now. . . “Shit,” Erik gnaws down hard on his bottom lip. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on with his daddy now. To learn they have such a heightened immune system and suddenly see that fun fact contradicted before his eyes?

As experienced as he is in treating field injuries, the shit’s different when it’s happening to your family. He’ll risk hurting someone else before his father. That and, well, whatever’s going on will need more than a tourniquet to fix.

Erik checks his watch anxiously, exchanging his eyes from the slow clicking hands to his father’s spasming figure. It’s slacked off some, his movements becoming minutely jerks and twitches. Streams of vomit push through his mouth. Erik leans over to make sure his father’s head stays turned.

“Where the fuck is backup?” he growls in the empty house. What he wouldn’t give for him and his father to be regular civilians. Just once in his life he wishes they weren’t pressed under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s heel. Protocol forbids they use regular hospitals and clinics to prevent potentially having heir DNA spliced, garnished or used for some paranoid ass alien experiments.

But if someone doesn’t show up in the next ten seconds, Erik’s going to tell all the higher-ups to get in line and suck his dick—

Rapid knocks pound on the door.

“About fuckin’ time!” he snaps to whoever’s there. “Bring yo’ dumb ass in here and you better have a damn med kit!”

Clint sweeps in like a whirlwind with a second body filing in behind him. Erik reclines back to glare at who’s coming in and upon recognizing the new face, instantly climbs to his feet.

“What the fuck is _he_ doin’ here?”

Clint ignores him, unzipping his medical bag as he kneels alongside N’Jobu’s head.  He lays a hand on N’Jobu’s sweating brow, the other hand scouring his bag’s contents until fishing out a stethoscope, pocket diagnostic set and gloves.

“Tell me what happened?” he loudly demands to startle Erik out of his glaring.

“Fury’s stupid ass was here,” Erik shoots back, eyes briefly leaving Rogers to supervise Clint’s nimble fingers. “I-I don’t know my father ended up like this. He was complainin’ about feelin’ ill, but no specifics. He has shallow breathing, redness enveloping in his eyes, chills, and bad spasms.”

Clint presses his stethoscope against N’Jobu’s chest. “Shit, his lungs sound like a water pump. Why the fuck didn’t you open an airway?”

“I still have sixteen hours left in medical attainment, dumb ass. I’m not about to fuck up my daddy’s lungs!”

“Easy there, young man.” Steve Rogers cautions, hands peacefully held up. “Let’s all remain calm. We can’t help your father with our feathers all ruffled.”

Erik looks the fool up and down. “You got some motherfuckin’ nerve comin’ in my house, white boy. Especially with the shit you pulled last week!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For real? You gonna play dumb?”

Clint’s quickly intervenes. “Rogers get to the car. I left a small black bag under the driver’s seat. Bring it to me. Stevens, sterilize some tongs, grab some rubbing alcohol and for God’s sake, abort your personal feelings before N’Jobu drowns in his fucking puke!”

“Fuck you, Clint.” Erik hits Rogers with a hard warning before hurrying to follow orders. He’s back in seconds with freshly washed hands and the supplies.

Rogers returns with his hands already gloved, plucking out an airway tube, tongue depressors and a large syringe. “You want me to do it?” he softly asks Clint.

“Nah, your hands aren’t steady. You haven’t finished your training either—”

“So you should be backin’ the fuck up!” snaps Erik.

Rogers shoots to his full height. “Young man, I’ve had it up to here with your—"

Erik does as well. “Who the fuck you raisin’ up to, homie? I’ll fold your ass in a heartbeat!”

“Where on earth is all of this aggression stemming from?”

“You overstepped your fuckin’ boundaries, bitch!”

“ENOUGH!” Clint huffs. “Steve, disappear. We’ll carry on your training another day. Erik, go where I can’t see you for the next couple of hours!”

“Yes sir,” Steve grumbles. He casts a sour look at Erik. “I promise you this isn’t over, young man.”

Erik promptly flips him off. “Hey, whenever you wanna catch these hands!”

“Yeah well, sticks and stones!” Rogers marches out the door, softly closing the door behind him.

Erik stands his ground. “I’m not leavin’ my father alone with you, white boy.”

Clint chuckles. “I figured you wouldn’t. But Rogers wouldn’t leave unless I made it seem as if the both of you were equally punished.” Clint cuts up N’Jobu’s shirt and turns him to lay on his back. His hairless chest is wiped clean with rubbing alcohol before Clint finds the precise area to inject the airway tube. A yellowish mucus suctions from the tip and spills over.

N’Jobu’s breathing gradually levels. Clint checks his eyes with a light for dilation. When satisfied he leans back on his heels, shaking his head. “I don’t know what kind of sickness causes this reaction. It’s strange. His body’s already fighting off the bacteria. Good thing too. Any other man would’ve bit the big one.”

Erik folds his arms to quell his racing heart. He sniffles. “You know about—”

“His blood? Yeah, since I left from under his tutelage. He trusted me with the secret. Coulson too, but it wasn’t long before Fury got wind of it and demanded a sample. N’Jobu refused of course, but Fury’s been patiently waiting for him to drop off. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s the one that got your old man sick.”

Erik furiously curses. “That son of a fuckin’ bitch! I knew he was up to no good.”

“Ain’t no point in getting worked up over it,” says Clint. “N’Jobu’s blood isn’t any good if the cells aren’t active. Dead body means dead results. I think this was just a private test to see how strong his immune system really is. See?” Clint gestures towards the tube.

Erik follows his gaze to where a fresh stream of blood bubbles. The weight of worry drops from his shoulders.

“This is probably an old disease,” Clint goes on to say. “Maybe combined with another pathogen. I wouldn’t put it past Fury to cast out the occasional bug to test your father’s limitations.

“Why hasn’t he tried that shit with me then?”

“You’re too valuable to the agency. I’m getting up in age, but even at my best, my success rate is nowhere near yours.”

Erik’s chest discreetly swells with pride. “As long as you recognize your betters.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Anyway, N’Jobu’s stabilizing. His body’s already cultivating the sickness into a vaccine.  He’s gonna be alright.” He pauses, then questions, “What’s your beef with Rogers?”

Erik shrugs, perching against the wall. “I don’t like him. He just,” he clears his throat, “rubs me the wrong way.”

“He rubs you the wrong way, or you don’t like how he’s possibly rubbing the prince?”

Erik’s muscles tense. “They fuckin’?”

Clint shrugs. “Not to my knowledge. Rogers is too sickeningly noble for that. He’s more old school; a real cool, down to earth, kinda gentleman.” His voice trays off quietly as he frowns. “He’s fresh to the agency, but he’s no slouch in combatives. Shit, he gave Natasha a run for her money at HQ. Damn near ripped her arm out the socket.”

“Damn.” Erik isn’t _that_ impressed. He laid out Natasha before. Clint too. “So, what’s a straight lace, golden boy like him doin’ joining us assassins?”

“Shit if I know. I stopped asking questions when they made Coulson supervisor. I just exist now.”

“I feel ya.”

Erik’s cell chimes an alert. His civilian phone, so he automatically assumes it’s Shuri since his father’s currently out of commission. He pulls it out, clicks in the passcode and at first, doesn’t recognize the number, but the message? He’d know it in the dark, in another language, if the shit was lime green and missing vowels.

_‘Can you talk?’_

Erik presses his lips together, inwardly debating on answering. He didn’t like how they parted ways. Hearing T’Challa’s voice might do him some good. Can’t hurt, right? “Ya mind chillin’ with my dad for a minute? I gotta make a call.”

“Oh my, you’re actually asking?”

Erik shoots Clint a foul look.

Clint holds up his hands. “Whatever, I don’t have anything to do outside of the usual.”

“Appreciate it,” Erik murmurs, fingers already clicking through the recent call log for the foreign number. He steps onto the front porch, pacing the length, waiting.

It takes a bunch of inner coaching for Erik to work up allowing the phone to ring more than once. The last time they spoke was a week ago, but it could have been an hour and still feel eternal. His thoughts slip in slim trickles of T’Challa’s face and voice while keeping his father’s welfare to the forefront of his mind.

The phone clicks on and Erik’s breath stalls.

_“Erik?”_

Erik’s breath lets out in a long, slow swoosh as he squats in one of the porch chairs. “What’s good, T?”

 _“I was. . .”_ a drawn pause, then a light sigh, _“I am not sure why I called. I think I wanted to hear your voice.”_ His accented chuckle floats through the receiver pure as filtered water. “ _I do not know why, but I felt perhaps something was wrong and . . .”_

“You wanted to be that shoulder I could cry on?”

 _“After what happened last week, I was not sure it was appropriate to check on you. Especially when it was I who recommended I have time_.”

“Ya won’t hear me complainin’.” Erik leans back and stares at the neighborhood in front of him. “M’glad ya called me. You weren’t too far off about something bein’ wrong.”

Erik hears some sheets shifting and a grunt over the phone before T’Challa’s voice dips an octave deeper _. “Are you alright?”_

“Yeah babe, m’cool. Just some shit with my family.”

_“You cannot talk about it?”_

Erik bows his head a moment, rubbing the closely shaved half until his fingers tangled in his dreads. He blows out and eventually says, “It’s complicated—”

_“Erik, it is fine. You made your point before—”_

“Nah T, you don’t get it,” Erik rushes. “I don’t wanna keep shit from you, but. . . I know it’s what’s keeping me from being with you the way I wanna be. I’m not feelin’ this strain between us. . .”

 

Call it an instinctual decision or an impulsive greed, but T’Challa wasn’t particularly keen on prolonging the silent treatment between him and Erik. The time he requested was a pointless jest. He already knows who he wants and what he wants from this man. He could claim to need a thousand years, but the seconds drag and the addiction Erik’s enveloped in him only becomes more potent.

Summoning up the courage to be the one who initiates the conversation took a lot of swallowing his pride and dignity. Hearing his voice after seven agonizing days brought a flutter of sweetness in T’Challa’s chest and his ears tinkled to hear it more.

His face washes with a smile after Erik’s admission. It’s all the confirmation he needs for the answers he originally called for and softly says, “I do not like the strain between us either. If possible, could we start over? Perhaps as friends?”

 _“I can’t be your friend, T,”_ says Erik _. “Not after what we’ve done, I can’t view you the same as a buddy or some shit. I seen you naked,_ ” he cheekily adds, _“and truth be told, being near you is kinda hard. . . You’re all I think about.”_

“And I you, Erik.” T’Challa readjusts himself on his sister’s bed and gazes out the window. “I know I said I needed time, but can I see you?”

_“When?”_

“Maybe tonight?”

Erik goes quiet a spell, then, _“Yeah, I’ll make it happen. Tell Shuri to give you to the key to my dorm. When I finish up here, I’ll come to you.”_

“I look forward to it.”

 _“Me too.”_ The phone call disconnects.

T’Challa lowers it to his lap, all smiles and blooming hope. There just might be a chance for them yet.

Erik didn’t feel content leaving his father behind until he received a solid promise from N’Jobu that he will call him if he relapses.

That whole blood regenerative shit isn’t something to shake a stick at.

Within a few hours, N’Jobu looks as bright eyed and bushy tailed as any healthy man. Appearances could be deceiving. It’s why Erik didn’t walk out the door until close to midnight.

He flashes his cell phone light over head and sees a glimmer shine off the hood of his car. Clint’s nesting on the roof as a favor. He doesn’t feel one hundred percent cool with leaving N’Jobu unsupervised either. He volunteered to keep watch while Erik went to handle his business with T’Challa. Clint doesn’t know that.

Or he probably does. Nothing in the entire universe would be strong enough to tempt him away from his father. That should be noted as a problem. Erik shakes those nagging instincts from his psyche. His trust isn’t something Erik freely gives to anybody, but deep down, he knows he can trust T’Challa with anything.

He reaches the school in record time, sliding into his assigned parking spot and secures his car before jogging into the dorm building. He takes the stairs two at a time as the roar of anticipation thunders in his chest. One would believe he were on his way to claim a fortune with the speed in his stride.

He scratches his nails along Shuri’s door in passing and comes upon his own room. The bravery and rush of adrenaline gradually melts into a puddle of nerves at the base of his belly as Erik uses his key to ease into his dorm room and glances around the room for a second body. His living room lamps are turned on, there’s the sound of his faucet running water, clanking metal, and shuffling permeating the kitchen. Tranquil foreign music is playing from somewhere by the window.  

T’Challa emerges from the kitchen dressed in a short purple apron—definitely Shuri’s— over a sleeve-less V-neck red shirt, smoke grey jeans and black socks.

Whatever Erik had been ready to say dies in his throat because he can’t help thinking how adorable T’Challa looks with those oversized yellow oven mittens. He’s promptly aghast at his own train of thought for describing T’Challa with a synonym related to cute. More like sexy, fine, delicious. 

“You just made yourself at home, huh?”

T’Challa shrugs a shoulder, giving a nervous smile. “I did not think you would mind.”

“Not with you havin’ it smellin’ so good in here.” Erik inhales a large whiff of whatever’s sweet smelling and toots his lips. “Cookies?”

“Chocolate chip. Shuri says they’re your favorite.”  T’Challa replies confidently, disappearing into the kitchen. He comes back with a napkin full of them. “You have milk. We can share them while we talk.”

“Who cooks cookies in the middle of the night though?”

“I have a terrible sugar tooth. I sometimes go into my kitchen at home while the cooks—” T’Challa freezes mid-sentence, pointedly looking at Erik’s face.

Erik raises an eyebrow. “Must be nice,” he grumbles casually. “I’ll get the milk.”

“Yes, the milk.” T’Challa watches him go inwardly berating himself for the slip.

Erik pours two plastic cups full of milk before going into the living room. T’Challa’s not taking chances and picks the armchair next to the couch. Smart move in Erik’s opinion. They can use the space to think properly.

Erik plops himself on the couch cushion adjacent to T’Challa, passing the full cup of milk over. A couple of cookies are exchanged for the cup. “If these are nasty, prepare to be judged.”

“I can assure you, my cookies are delicious.”

“We’ll see.” Erik shoves one into is mouth. The instant it lays on his tongue, his mouth waters. This is the best fucking cookie he’s had in all of his damn life. He swallows it after five chews and huffs, “Of course the perfect prince is a baking prodigy.”

Other than a single noisy, gasping breath, and the tightening of his fist, T’Challa doesn’t let his surprise distort his expression. “How long have you known?”

“The day after I left ya at the hotel.” The second cookie’s polished off and Erik chases it with some milk. “I had to figure out some way to keep you close.” He decides to be thoroughly honest and provides, “I know your birthday, most of your lineage, blood type, allergies, the names of your immediate family.”

T’Challa’s eyes widened with each admission.

Erik licks his lips, meeting his eyes sheepishly. “What’cha thinkin’?”

“A couple of things,” says T’Challa. “Namely if I should be concerned that you were able to acquire so much of my personal information. Especially since—”

“Wakanda’s supposed to be a destitute third world country, right?” Erik finishes softly. “Can’t imagine why it’d be so hard to obtain that kind of intel.”

T’Challa narrows his eyes. “In the spirit of honesty,” he slowly begins, “I tried to find information on you, but even with my limited resources, I should have been able to find out something. Imagine my surprise to discover that there isn’t a single trace of you in the permanent records.”

“You see me, yeah?”

“Who am I really speaking to, Erik?”

Erik’s gaze sharpens, then his boyish grin comes in full glory. “Erik Stevens.” He licks his lips. “African American playboy, college student, currently unemployed, served in the Navy, riding on a few scholarships and Financial Aid, no kids, nothing out of the ordinary.” He shrugs. “I’m just your everyday fine-as-fuck joe.”

T’Challa hides a smirk behind his cup.

Erik’s always been sensible in small matters, if not the large ones such as walking out on T’Challa that night, finding him again just to feed him some bullshit story and here as they are now. After releasing a low sigh, his fingers grip into his jeans, sharply inclining his head so he sees T’Challa through his lashes. “What’s the real reason you wanted to see me?”

As T’Challa thought a moment, his face changed to the color of dark burgundy. “I assumed you would already know. You’re observant when it comes to everything else.”

“I’ve never been too good with guessin’ games,” Erik softly says.

“Well,” T’Challa places his cup on the table, lifting his chin high. His legs cross and Erik’s put in the sense of being scrutinized by a jeweler. “You were right; we cannot be friends. The passion we shared is not something normal friends can overcome. I am drawn to you, Erik. More so than I am afraid to confess. It disturbs me how much I have come to. . . have developed this fondness for you.”

“Yeah?” Erik scoops to the edge of the couch, the front of his knee brushing T’Challa’s.

“If I am forced to wait, I must know. . .”

“Hmm?”

“What is it you feel for me?”

Erik holds his gaze. He reaches out, hand slow in its approach so the option to shift out of the way is plain as day. T’Challa stays motionless as long, dry fingers grip the back of his neck and steers him in. “I wish you knew how much shit you’re acceptin’ of me. You can’t possibly imagine—”

“I don’t care,” T’Challa swallows so transfixed on the specks of light brown and hazel marring what he thought were pure mahogany eyes. “Whatever it is, I will shoulder it with you. I accept your burdens as mine.”

“Even if the world crashes down ‘round me?”

T’Challa eyes could pierce solid steel with the fierceness flashing there. “It will have to take me down as well then.”

Erik sighs through his nose, closing his eyes. He hesitantly licks his lips, then softly says, “I still need time, but know I’m diggin’ you. A lot.” He suddenly chuckles and the sound’s serene and sweet. “A whole lot.”

“I dig you too, Erik Stevens. More than anything.”

Erik is near close to losing his tight grip on his control. “You’re. . . makin’ me feel some type of way,” he whispers. “God, I’m glad it’s someone like you.”

“ _By Bast_ , as am I,” T’Challa says with the sensation of a dam breaking inside him to release a reservoir of tainted waters and leans forward and kisses him.

The same dam seems to have burst inside of Erik; like T’Challa, he may feel every dragging day of their time apart in the same instance. He returns the kiss earnestly, clawing at T’Challa’s shoulders. The prince shoves him to the floor, knocking the coffee table off balance and the lamp crashing somewhere off the stand in his hurry to unclasp the button on Erik’s jeans, at least until he feels a strong grip on his wrists and a stiffness overtaking Erik’s body.

T’Challa moans, disgruntled and gently grapples his fingers in the air. “What is it?”

Erik’s chest rises and falls unevenly. “The last time we fuc—had sex, it ended in an argument.” He works them up to T’Challa kneeling between Erik’s thighs and Erik wraps his arms around the prince’s waist. “We should take this slow. No rushin’ this time.”

“I think I can manage that. Although. . .”

“Yeah?”

T’Challa nuzzles under Erik’s chin. “It will be difficult. I am not accustomed to being told no, you realize. _Especially_ for sex.”

Erik licks his bottom lip, eyes drifting shut. “Spoiled ass,” he teases softly and tilts his head to give T’Challa all the access he needs to blaze Erik’s skin in more of those barely there kisses. “You keep this up, you’re gonna make me a liar.”

“You do not want me to stop,” T’Challa whispers and reaches around so both his palms lazily drape over the curvature of Erik’s ass and reorients himself to shift to rest his chin on Erik’s chest, giving himself a long moment to feel full and at peace with the world.

. . . Because he strangely feels as if he will not be getting these opportunities often.

A calloused finger drags along T’Challa’s brow. “What’s got that look on your face?” Erik smiles crookedly. “Got your face wrinkled like a prune.”

T’Challa smiles as well. “Nothing.” He squeezes Erik to him and sighs. “I am just savoring this for as long as I can.”

“I’m down with that,” says Erik. “But we ain’t gonna cuddle on this hard ass floor when I got a perfectly good bed in the room.”

“I thought you did not want to risk anything?”

Erik snorts. “You sayin’ you don’t have any self-control?”

T’Challa shrugs, eyes shifty, bemused. “It is not for my sake.”

Erik shoves him back and climbs to his feet. “We’ll see.” He winks over his shoulder and speeds up when T’Challa starts to run after him into the bedroom.

The evening’s full of teasing, soft words and eventual silence where both men relax in one another arms, just happy to have the other near.


End file.
